The blade demands one arm. It will not serve her here. So she cradles Melody’s tiny frame in the crook of the one arm she’s got left. Do you strain to reach her? To hide away? Don’t. Don’t you move a muscle. She’ll hold you closer. Sneak one, solitary finger behind your head, and keep it from falling limp. (She cannot feel the wave of hair, cascading over her claw. No silk ever looked so soft.) She’s got you. Rest in the shade of her body. Her scales can endure a hundred suns. You are safe. You must be safe. 

The fearsome head of the Vermillion Beast of Lanterns dips low to the Priestess, then freezes. What…what [i]does[/i] her head look like? She’d seen glimpses, in rivers, on posters, but in the hoards of her memories not one face belongs to her. She senses no spike or ridge along her neck, as she swallows great lungfuls of stinking air. Nothing below her jaws either. So. Perhaps? Perhaps she can descend, slowly. By inches. By the breadth of hairs. Freeze, when she feels the slightest pressure. Listen, for cries of pain. Feel, for agony. Then, with barely a twitch of movement, back and forth. Brushing against her forehead.

Her jaws part hardly at all, keeping rows of fangs hidden. The Beast does not talk. The Beast is not made for talking. The Beast roars and thunders. Rips and tears. From the corners of upturned lips rumbles forth a crude, discordant avalanche of a voice. Feel it echo through her body, straining to break forth in horrible violence. Feel it, if you do not wish to hear it.

[i]“liTtLe........bUd.”[/i]

No more. Any more, and. She’ll break it. She’ll break her. She’ll break the most precious thing she’s ever been allowed to hold.

Please. Just let that be enough.