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12-25-2016, 07:45 PM
The sharp crack of her laughter, so minute, so fragmented, was enough to render his devilish smirk into a genuine, boyish, tender smile: without the rogue filaments, without the acrimony sliding behind its enigmatic pretenses. He listened, leaning in closer, all charm and capriciousness, ears tugging forward as she told him not to be silly (and he nearly wished he could always be in such a figure, dashing and humorous, instead of tugged and pulled into the denizens of contempt and rage). But the moment was dashed soon after, quick, swift, keen, a blunt force slammed against his skull, not even allowing him time to mourn the loss of her amusement before she confessed to her sins. The prince was silent amidst her outpouring of grief and calamity, as her body twisted into shudders, as her frame seemed to serve each and every reminder of assaults and sieges she didn’t deserve. Despite his stoic, calm exterior, inside the boy boiled – an abomination, a ruin, dredged back up again from the surface of hatred and wrath – a loathing for her perils, for her trials, for her tribulations, and a justified abhorrence for a man who’d earned every chunk she’d taken from his flesh. His muscles ached and his mind schemed, rolling, remembering every inch of soil he’d covered and coveted once she’d escaped from the cave, once he’d scoured the cave’s aperture, the meadows, the thistles that glistened like thorns. Had the beast been nearby he would’ve consumed him entirely, only snickered, only laughed, as he was rendered into tiny fragments of bone and blood. It was madness, it was hatred, it was steady, resolute defiance and sedition towards those who believed they could do anything and everything to any soul they came across – wound, strike, shoot them down with feral ease and restless havoc, creating horrors and atrocities for no reason at all. They showed no remorse. They felt no guilt. Erebos couldn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t fathom the notion, and couldn’t see that his schemes headed there as well, down the rubbled path of annihilation and devastation (but for vengeance, for revenge; it had a purpose, no matter how disastrous, savage, and unrelenting). But to Enna, who served as a Time Mender, who spent every waking moment believing in assuaging, in soothing, in healing the broken, the beaten, and the damned, perhaps it’d been a sacrilege. Was it blasphemous? Was it irreverent? Was she so rattled by the slashing of her creed, that she believed she was warranted all of these woes, all of these trials? He took a moment, a quiet, careful instance, to draw, sketch, and align his features into a composed wall (forgoing the seething, atrocious mess he’d become), a mighty fortress, an entanglement of strength and might, glancing at her, eyes bold, crown extended, leaning towards her with nothing but truth, no lies, no pretenses, no falsehoods, on his tongue. “It’s not a crime to defend yourself.” He was proud of her for attacking, for assaulting, for laying a siege down upon an enemy that surely would’ve tried to kill her had she not fought with teeth and daggers, with wit and sedition – he was just disheartened that he hadn’t been there in time, pushing his sword into the fool’s chest, stomping on his skull until it broke, shattered, crumbled into bits of dust and nothingness. The scion’s next set of words were a bit more nonchalant, a bit more apathetic, indifferent to the adversary who’d scorned his friend – it nearly sounded like his father, cloaked in insouciance, riddled with defiance. “And what if he’d died? His own treachery put him there. No one made him attack you. No one said you should stand by and let him tear you apart.” But his gaze still remained entirely on her (trying not to focus on the pieces of her story where the vile heathen had touched her, had scarred her, had marked her – because if he thought about it any more he may have imploded). It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right, and he’d already promised he’d amend it somehow. He’d try again, find the man, and burn him straight to the ground, leave him for the crows to pick at, for the sun to bleach dry, for the rains to wash away. “So I’m glad you left him in pieces. It meant you survived.” And if he didn’t – so what? Erebos nodded at Orsino’s quiet, unsaid reverie – tried not to pout at the notion that they’d lose an opportunity to destroy an enemy. At her last phrase though, he lapsed back into silence. The soldier considered not telling her what he’d done, shoving it off to the side for another play, another act, another stage he’d yet to entirely set. Another lie or pretense would leave them in more sour situations, additional melancholy and acidity he intended to avoid. He glanced off to the side for a moment, wrinkling his nose as he mulled over his decision, before ultimately staring back at her again, voice dragged in heathen foolishness, knowing a lecture would soon be forthcoming. “I did.” He shrugged then, pretended as if it’d been nothing at all, when he’d scoured the area for a length of time, attempting to avoid the Laurelin, scrambling to find a bloody thistle or some remnant of a stranger evading, escaping, the scene of his crime. “He wasn’t around,” settled on his final string of words, on the arch to his brow, on the ready insurrection brewing across his youthful face. |
- table by Niki -
@Enna
