Kiss me again
Kiss me until I am sick of it
It’s a different sort of blue... the eyes of the sour gray mare. Not like Aela’s that start as a reflection of ocean waves but seem to turn darker the longer you stare into them, like the bottomless ocean deep itself. Revelrie’s remind him of clear mountain lakes covered in frost. They are hard as ice and just as cold. As his words grab hold of her, they almost seem to crack as her scowl deepens over her features. She’s rather pretty when she’s angry.
There is nothing I want from you. She spits and his amusement lingers, seeing that he had managed to get under her skin. He basks in the aftermath of her venom, radiating nothing but smugness. “Whatever you wish… darling.” Curls form in the strands of radiant gold and black, salt from the sea evaporating the moisture from his mane as it crimps and tangles over his forehead, a glimmer of red beneath the fringe. She continues to scoff at him and something animalistic seems to respond deep within, it writhes and responds to her hiss like a call. Like a summons.
He shifts his weight with discomfort, his lips tighter as his own grimace deepens. This one is like a viper, ready to strike. He wouldn’t even mind if she decided to bite. “And yet you’re still here.” He responds with that twisted smile, a glitter in the depths of red as they narrow on her. Thinning into slits. The history of this land was as evasive to him as the better high he was constantly seeking. He cared little for history and even less for stories. Stories were fairy tales for good children to keep them scared straight, kind children who needed a reminder of a moral, loved children who fell asleep to the sound of the warmth in a parents voice during the telling. He’s not sure he’s ever been told one. Not a good one anyway.
The tension slightly releases with the tide, with her sigh, but he is still coiled tightly like a spring. She had managed to find a little crevice in his armor, had managed to pinch some exposed skin. “What would you know of what I look for?” His voice flat and clipped but he can’t help the whisper of curiosity that maybe she knew something he didn’t. He wasn’t really sure he was looking for anything amongst the heady fumes, powders, and liquids he consumed. It still irks him, however, that she has the audacity to speak to him like she knows him. She knows nothing about him. Nobody did and that has always been their choice. Beyond the Prince, beyond the parties, beyond the cruel words. They have only seen what he has wanted them to see. Uncaring, mean, spiteful, unpredictable. What better way to keep them all from discovering who he really was beneath the surface.
That primal feeling slithers within him again but he fights against it, whatever it is.
He has not forgotten his original question and he’s not as stupid as she thinks, having noticed it unanswered. Was that intentional or not? Before he can press her, she seems to melt before him into something softer, something kinder then the severe creature that had stood before him seconds ago. Her crystal gaze wanders over him and he refuses to back down under her scrutiny, his own scarlet eyes flaring darkly. Taking in the sudden brightness as the ice thaws in her veins, at the ghost of a smile that caresses the corner of her lip. A canvas that has painted itself into something new. It catches him more off guard than her annoyance. What was she thinking, looking at him like that? What had drastically changed?
Whatever it is fades as quickly as it comes, she is once again all frowns and bitterness, but her hackles don’t seem to quite rise like they use to. She turns to the swelling ocean that churns beneath them and he comes to join her, regardless if he’s invited or not. Her question isn’t quite drowned out by the crash of thunder in the distance. “It’s when I like it best here.” Every word is truth, unable to tell anything other but honesty. He doesn’t bother to phrase his candor in the usual trickster way that Faes are known to do, hiding their true intentions behind clever riddles of words and multiple meanings. It doesn’t seem necessary when they are merely commenting on the weather.
His eyes remain on the horizon, on the incoming dark clouds and the thrash of waves in a choppy sea. His voice low but knows, as a long pointed ear swivels slightly towards her, that she will catch it. “Do I at least get the name of the ghost that haunts my land?”
Obscene
@[revelrie]