|
He was a spark of sedition; incensed, outraged, seething at the end of his tethers, struggling to compose himself when naught but insurgence clawed at his veins. It’d been a complete, utter waste of time – minutes he could’ve spent hunting down one more monster, one more heathen, had been squandered, misspent, and dissipated due to the Laurelin’s silly little games. The boy was even more irritated at himself, because he’d fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker, tried to slither around the trap before he even realized he’d been caught in its grasp, flailing around in madness and deceit. His eyes remained focused solely on the gilded beast, and his chest heaved a massive sigh, mouth parted, ready to extend his farewells, his exasperation, then leave the scene as empty, as useless, as he’d been when it started. But Thranduil’s words stopped him, caused him to tilt his head again, curious, confused, bewildered by how the other stag’s appearance had altered; no pretenses, no charades, no guessing games, ears pinned, features furrowed, pulling the blade back and struggling with its ineptitude.
Thranduil wasn’t lying?
Or was this one more show? One more display? One more act set along the fiend’s stage, enticing his audience to follow until they’d been completely ensnared? Erebos’ gaze narrowed, suspicious again, the boiling roll of contempt undulating over his jaw, clasping and holding a brewing cauldron of calamity down within his chest, until the Laurelin began describing the beasts from beyond their walls. His harks swiveled around instantly, caught in a vicious cycle of ebb and flow, of waxing and waning, of trying to seethe and rid himself of this infernal plague, but incapable of committing the final motion, movement, maneuver. The prince listened attentively to the faces, the physiques, of so many he didn’t know, couldn’t recall (there was a multitude upon this earth, shifting from realm to realm, some sweetly innocent, some damned from their first breath) – beasts stroked and garbed in earth tones, creatures swept aside in spots, splotches, and smiles, idle infidels wreathed, veiled in pure ivory, but the only one that truly garnished his attention was the final rendition. Red and bloodied Pegasus (from her?, scrapes on his cheek, vicious-looking temper… Questions, queries, and provocations stirred along the youth’s mind, and he wanted to snap, wanted to rally, wanted to launch from siege to siege and storm his way into a vicious tempest, because while he couldn’t be completely sure that this was the beast who’d ravaged Enna, the possibility was there (scrapes could mean she fought back, blood could mean he’d carved it from her frame, ill-temper could mean hatred, vehemence, towards something or someone for no rhyme, no reason). It was enough (had to be). So the scion swallowed his pride, the arch of his defiance, the swell, the itch of insubordination, to nod his head and extend his thanks (hoping that Thranduil didn’t see the way his muscles coiled, the way his frame composed, drew itself into pariah glimpses and warrior phases, how he seemed poised to set the world ablaze). “Thank you. I think that’s all I need to know.” Before the golden figure could set a price, before he could embellish and enfold him into his illustrious debt, the boy bowed again, coaxed Orsino away with a nod. He was putting trust in Thranduil, and perhaps that was the most dangerous thing he’d ever done – vocals snapping together on a mercurial pursuit, on a fiendish light. “I’ll be sure to return it to him.” The blade glinted between the fox’s teeth, all perfected lies, and the pair turned, twisting themselves back towards the Heart Caves, along the ramparts, the munitions, and preparing for treachery, for peril, for menace cloaked in vengeance.
| |
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
⇒
[O] make them think they ever stood a chance
