Lightning flashes though the darkness and the rainbow panes of glass. Thunder rumbles overhead, greater than an echo, lying heavy in the air like the shadow of some prodigious beast. Rain pours, silky and silver, and the wind howls underneath the canopy of clouds; it swirls passed the beast, dancing underneath marble eaves, merry and clueless to the fires of detestation that have sprung between the two children. The Grey-Eyed prince receives a shock; she spits her own poison.

His head drops; his brow is shadowed by shaggy, dripping-wet locks. His shoulders start to shake, rising and falling the rhythm of the laughter tumbling from his lips. It’s a warm sound, smooth and masculinly rich, the promise of a fine tenor instrument of adulthood. Softly it falls, pleasantly amused, a creature apart from the usual rasp of the whisper he is accustomed to. It falls so sweetly, this laughter, incredulous in its enjoyment, light upon his tongue—for his thoughts are light as well, his head swimming and dizzy with the purity of his wrath. It takes his breath away; he has lost his train of thought. His mind has shut down—his body has become stiff—his heart hammers hard in his chest, fluttering wildly, dangerously—he has never before been consumed in this fashion by his rage. The gods saw fit to build a creature capable of his complete and utter hatred; he cannot help but laugh at her.

It is all he can do.

The laughter remains soft underneath the rain, a delighted, boyish laughter. It is difficult to pull himself away from it. “But…” he coos between chuckles, “…you invaded my world.” His tone is teasing, deceptively cordial, a farce of youthful charm.

Something snaps within him; the self-control he has carefully crafted for himself, the almighty shield between himself and bull-headed, weak-hearted passions—it falls apart, blasted away like the finest panels of jade and china glass. He launches into the rotunda, beneath the heavy, multicolored shadow—he charges the child of rust and sunsets, horn pointed for her throat, her heart, her long, ugly misshapen face—

--for his ears ring for her demise—

--his body aches for her destruction—

--his blood boils for her agony.

She must not be.




@[Tandavi]
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