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12-19-2016, 11:16 AM
She didn’t look at him, and he turned away too, losing himself in the folds of darkness and ice; clenching his enamel together in a frustrating, vexing crush. He said nothing at the last, sullen rush of her tears, or the rancor scraping at her throat as she murmured her own apology (and the boy was uncertain if she was just languishing it to him, reflecting it back to his intangible, false regrets; perhaps she knew how many lies he was made of, how many miniscule schemes and tangents molded a cunning cretin). The prince was only brought back to her form, curled and coiled in the steam, in the depths of the springs, by the slide of her next words – incapable of hiding the trace of his Cheshire grin. I think I’ve done something terrible. He wanted to laugh, to chuckle, to roll along the ground in sweeping waves of silliness, of mischief, because never had he ever been concerned, perturbed, or distressed by the lengths of her terribleness. “That’s never bothered me before,” he pressed into the slide of midnight and oils, a calculating smirk eclipsing over the youthful glow of his features. He instantly yearned to know what she’d done – because he liked her realm of menacing, vexing things, when they played parts, sketched, scripted, intrigues and follies, a few mercurial endeavors that cost them newcomers and wanderers but left them in stitches. It had been what first drove him to her – scaling along walls of silliness and perils, a sense of jeopardy and danger, omens and joviality, a minor disobedience and nefariousness lending them amusement and diversions. She had snickered when he joked, she’d been just as allured by the fringes of darkness and the shimmer of shadows; she’d been entertained when they’d forged follies in the heart of ghouls and goblins. Together they’d ensued a mass of tyranny in the form of nonsense and devilry, and later, when he grew stronger, mightier, a varnished glow of tenaciousness and audacity, the harsh, unrelenting need to plunge into roguishness failed to cease. Some days he called himself another name – gave strangers a calling from his lineage, like blistering, emboldened Ignatius, or dark, forbidding Belial, and other moments he chased after other youths with Orsino, uttered terrifying commands and watched as the world was altered before them, sceneries and surroundings changing from dreams to nightmares (and all he’d done was laugh). Erebos almost told her of those great triumphs, those dastardly instances she hadn’t seen just so she’d chuckle too, so they could forgive, and so they could forget (except he wouldn’t – he wouldn’t ever fail to remember her lying on the cave floor, covered in blood). The prince’s lip parted, tongue wagging to impart some great, grand tale she could either believe or roll her eyes at, when the soft, dulcet utterance of his name caused him to shut his jaws completely. He thought she was going to tell him, reveal the secret, the furtive wails of her acrimony, but moments passed, spiraling one after another, leaving him with only an arched brow and smile yielding to a blank canvas, a slightly bewildered stare. Maybe she’d ceased merely to tease, to torment, but gazing at her still form, at the punctured air slowly shifting around them, the youth took back such sentiments. Was she afraid to reveal whatever horrific occasion she’d caused? Was she apprehensive that he would condemn her, become judge, jury, and executioner beneath the chilling winds and the vicious truths? He hoped not – not after all the things he’d done and intended to do. The prince wouldn’t play the hypocrite’s fiddle, the dance of some pious martyr, or the role of a sanctimonious fool; he’d made mistakes, committed errors, often on purpose. Whatever Enna had done, whatever wrong she’d felt she’d made, he’d remain gallantly on her side; a valorous knight to those he cherished. “What did you do?” He asked on a chord of resilience, firm and strong, unyielding and resolute, not soft, not light, not airy and fragile, as if scared or frightened to hear the tale. He’d be the same as he always was, and perhaps she could find comfort in the foolish, stalwart heart of a devilish youth. |
- table by Niki -
