Crown of Blood does not waver in the face of her aggression, soothing to the chaotic demons that resided within her, a balm to her enflamed ego.

As swiftly as the tantrum takes her, it fades, his interest in her words drawing her into a more poised stance, her grace leaned upon rather than her ferocity as if she had never shown that within her tiny bodice resided more than one might assume from taking in her slight build. She does not notice that the transformation is odd, that to replace the grimace of murder with a sugary grin is wrong; she does not care.

He will love her.

They all do.

The golden one with the delectable rump speaks up, and she rolls her mismatched gaze over towards him, missing the grimace of distaste that crosses the dark stag’s features at the mention of snow and cold. She does not mind discomfort, the chill, for she is white and the mountain hides her in the most obvious of places. She can watch while others think they are alone, she can know what others thought went unseen, and even to a mad woman, such a thought is titillating, enough to lend her crazed mind into a stupor much like drunkenness when she thought of the power she might accrue in secrecy, in shadow.

No one questions the snow?

The odd statement draws her interest, the damsel tilting her face at a grotesque and curious angle to drink in what else falls from the mouth of the flamboyant Spaniard. Why do they not question it? Is it the Lord of Death that watches them with his cold blue eyes or the living statues that adorned their borders? Is it her, is it Beloved, is it the shadow in her heart that frightens them away?

Are they all wielders of wickedness?

Suddenly her eyes broaden, a sharp gasp taken in through pink lips, her tongue lazily tasting the fringes of her mouth.

What death there would be, if it were true. She had seen so many in her short time there already, so many with blades drawn and bodies toned by the steep pathways of the land they called their own. The imagery of the war that is sure to come from such an amassment of forces makes her lips curl upwards in the most twisted of smiles, a ream of twitchy giggles blubbering from her in the delight of the image roused by the promises of the Golden Boy.

Names slip by while she stands still and enraptured by the massacre that plays in her mind, the trees red and dripping and the fields ablaze and littered with corpses, punctured and torn. She can smell the blood, rusty and brilliant, she can almost taste the succulence of that aroma blending with the acrid rise of ash and smoke. She has seen it before. She will see it again.

Crown of Blood pulls her eyes to him with his sigh, though she is still held by her laughter and a visible struggle to silence the sound crosses her face, an odd combination of loathing blended with manic glee; does he say he will come with her, and the golden one?

Her battle is lost. The giggling wins, another row long and joyous songlike as it dangles from her cruel mouth and her head shakes side to side in insane mirth; after a time, she manages words in between the sounds, her pale tail swaying in pleased motions behind her as she arches her neck and bats her long, silvery lashes.

"All good things are born from pain," sweetly croons the demoness, her body gracefully stepping towards the path that leads north, a long glance given the other who lives in the snow to see if he will follow, "come, come. It calls us home."



Beloved
rust every place that I touch