bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
He doesn’t understand her and that frustrates him.
She talks in gibberish half the time, spouting off things like they were universal truths instead of some wild fantasy that only lives in her head. The other half of the time she sullen and quiet, narrowing her eyes at him and glaring as though he was the one who had been chasing her for who knows how long. (Of course, he had chased her, but he doesn’t stop to think of such things.) Instead, he lets the irritation grow in him, blossoming like a rose, branching out through his veins to turn his expression darker.
“Tell me the truth,” he finally grinds out between clenched teeth, something dark beginning to move around his ankles, darker even than the pitch of the manipulated night around them. His shoulder is dark and the air around them is thick with the scent of it, but he has not begun to pay the price he would pay to learn the truth of the fox before him. “Tell me the truth or I will pry it from your mind myself.”
But she dares to command him and his emerald eyes sharpen with a rare fury.
“Try to tell me what to do again,” he snarls, usually impassive face turning into something uglier. In response, he reaches for the borders just recently resurrected and begins to draw them closer around them, letting the weight of them cause a squeal as they grate against the ground. There is still enough room for her to move, but less so and he holds the magic of it between his fingers still as he glares down at her.
“Tell me the truth,” he repeats, slower now, the syllables each weighed and then given.
“Who are you?”
A pause, a muscle twitching in his powerful jaw.
“Why are you running?”
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
