bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
Her thoughts are sharp, jagged things and he doesn’t try overly hard to dive into them. He feels the edges of them in the corners of his consciousness. He can sense the anger and the fury and, if he were to pick up on her desire for him to fear her, he may have laughed again. For everything that Woolf has seen and felt and experienced in this life, true fear has never been one of them. There has been times that he had wished he could feel it—truly experience it—if only so he could know what it is like to be afraid.
What about it drives men to such desperate measures?
What about fear will make a rational man chew through his own leg?
These are the kind of questions he wants the answers to, and if the acid on her tongue was enough to evoke them in him, he may have turned himself over for it. But, alas, he misses such thoughts, and he maintains his distance, amused and interested enough to remain even though his favor is now over.
She comments on her own immortality with a near disdain and he tilts his head in thought, wondering at the kind of life you must leave to hate the magic that leaves you alive. But he doesn’t comment on it. He is many things, but he has never been accused of being a great conversationalist.
But she doesn’t let him off the hook quite so easily, and he is soon faced with the sharp edges of her question. “My very presence hangs off the barest of threads when it comes to fate.” His smile stretches wide across his swarthy face although it is not particularly warm. For a second, his body begins to fade, the edges of it going fuzzy while the rest of him begins to dissolve. It happens slowly, the particles of him beginning to swirl and then collapse onto itself. A thunderclap of a moment later and it all falls, leaving nothing but a small pile of dust where he had been standing, the pieces beginning to blow in the wind.
“But I, too, have little say in the matter.”
His voice blows in on the breeze as the dust begins to gather again, swirling into place, starting at his ankles and then up his body. He pulls himself together slowly, standing several feet to the right of where he had been. The sensation is like it had been when he had floated amongst the cosmos with his sister, when they had been in the heavens, spent and wrung dry. He is thankful for the blood staining his shoulder. For the easy price to pay for such trivial magic, for his own amusement more than anything.
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
@[Sabra]
