04. Games that people play by Tempest

tempest

Tempest sat on top of the grassy knoll overlooking the mausoleum thinking about his lover, his arms were loosely wrapped around his legs. The smell of leather that clung to him was made stronger by the penetrating rays of the sun. Analisa. His eyes were drawn to the heavy door of the burial chamber. With an almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw he stood then started down the hill.

Power clung to him like a second skin, without looking right or left he knew all that happened around him. So Malachi’s voice came as no surprise, Tempest had felt him arrive. “Why are you here, father?” Even at Malachi’s young age, his voice was smooth like velvet, beautiful and compelling. In time it would match Tempest’s in strength.

He easily shrugged off the compulsion to answer his son, he knew why Malachi was here and while part of him was angered that his son was drawn to his pain, another part of him was proud at the strength of his offspring. He didn’t bother answering until he had set a summoned branch of dogwood beside the door of the crypt.

“You know why. Don’t play games with me.” Tempest turned to face his son, he was not in the mood to be needled. Tempest’s fiery eyes slide from his son back to the knoll, it was there that Rook had seen him for the first time.

A scowl crossed Malachi’s features as he came to stand at Tempest’s side. “You are thinking about him now.”

Tempest looked back to Malachi once more. He had never before thought to question why Malachi hated Rook so much until now. “Perhaps, perhaps not.” He lifted an indifferent shoulder. He shielded his thoughts and emotions from Malachi causing a further darkening of his son’s features.

“I don’t like it when you do that.” Malachi complained. “Don’t you love me?”

Tempest slung his arm casually over Malachi’s shoulders. “I said no games.” The answer hit him hard then, hard enough that his control slipped for an instant and Malachi could feel the immediate tension that coiled tightly within him.

Slowly Tempest’s molten eyes slide to his son’s crimson ones. Father and son stood silently contemplating each other. Something intruded on Tempest’s thoughts and his look took on an additional hardness. “I must go.”

For once there were no words designed to make try and make Tempest feel guilty, seeking a weakness in the hard shell of his emotional armor. Malachi merely responded with a quiet farewell and stepped away. Tempest vanished, missing the calculating gleam that entered his son’s eyes.

Sat, Aug 10th – 3:11AM