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01-15-2017, 01:13 PM
Even as she spoke of her ways, of her creeds, of all the oaths gathered behind her unrelenting stature, he could feel the rebuttal bursting through his lungs. The prince couldn’t understand any other way. He couldn’t comprehend any other option. There was always justice and revenge poised across his tongue, sizzling and intrepid, undaunted and fearless, indifferent towards the eventual maiming he’d possess in the wake of administering another’s retaliation. The healer must’ve known, must’ve felt, must’ve read into his thoughts, because no sooner had his chest tightened, had the fury in his bones reignited, had the fiendish heart pulsed with an eerie, enigmatic madness, she was there, lips stretched over his shoulder, along his chest. The little beast wondered if she could feel the madness, the calamity, the rash, blunt, avaricious actions stored between his muscles, the coiled bedlam yearning to stretch, to thrash, to pulse with wicked ease, the need for glory, for punishment, for a ferocious touch of annihilation. Every time she spoke, every word she uttered, just leant more fuel for the fire, more wretched hatred for a soul he’d never met, incised and incensed, plagued primordial intentions and rancorous irreverence. Even the somber shades (I could have let him) left naught but a destructive grace locked in his mind – the images of a monster driven from his keep, tossed down cliff sides and ramparts, blown to bits and pieces, left for scavengers, given naught but an empty funeral, no one left to mourn the collection of ash at his feet. He couldn’t fathom her martyr claims, the way she should’ve just fled or laid down to bear a cretin’s wrath, and wanted to defy all the notions she concocted, clenching his jaw, biting his tongue, trying to regain clarity when all he wanted to do was yell. His mother’s calm poise must have reined him in for a few moments, because he lowered his chin so it rested along the top of her ears, breathing deeply, releasing the toxins, the venom, stored across his lips, quiet, but pressing. “So you just want him to get away with it.” It was such nonsense that he scarcely believed it’d come from his mouth (and surely he wouldn’t abide by it anyway – the savagery was already promised, and the harsh resolutions bid an ominous shadow over his horizons – he welcomed them like a fiend, like a wraith, like a piece of mayhem and ruin). Then she pulled away – and so it seemed to be the way with them, a constant battle between who fell and who reached and who dared to pull the other out of oblivion, and by the flatness of her tongue he knew he’d blundered again. His features rendered back into a still reticence, brows not daring to furrow, eyes failing to narrow, just watching, studying, trying to find the place where he’d erred. He felt Orsino roll his foxy gaze somewhere in the distance, but failed to see the noose, the trap, she’d set. She turned away and he merely stared, toying with the implication that he should apologize again (for what?), but the phrase didn’t simmer over his throat, and he stewed in silence. Her resulting laugh was almost empty, held and fostered by all the complexities he couldn’t fully apprehend (just like all the other endless sentiments she bore – why she bothered to think of herself as the cruel beast when she’d been the one assaulted), and the boy let it fold back upon him like a hollowed shell, cracking his edges in two. “What am I supposed to promise?” Because he knew there was something deeper there, something she wanted but couldn’t ask of him (maybe she knew he’d do it anyway, no matter what blood oath she craved, no matter if she believed he should stay there, safe in the confines of ice and rime). Perhaps it was here that they’d come to one more crossroad, and he’d lean precariously out of sight, down into the midst and mist of daggers and destruction, away from the well-tread path. |
- table by Niki -
@Enna
