"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
That had been easy. Surprisingly so. But she would be the last to complain about such things, especially given her plans, nefarious as they happened to be.
Come quickly, she had said. And so easily he had complied. Take me to her.
Oh, she would, but perhaps not in the sense he is expecting.
With a simple dip of her head, she turns and complies. It is easy enough to misdirect him. A simple tweak here, a substitution there, and he is on the path to Tephra. A slow smile curves her lips as she leads him, a smile filled with satisfaction, a smile entirely invisible to him. She is a master of sight, and he is no match. So as he goes to Tephra, she leads him to Nerine.
--
Soon they have reached the bounds of her home, and she can nearly taste victory alongside the scents of salt and sea. As fortune would have it, the similarities between their respective destinations is not such that it would be immediately noticeable. A ruse she could pull off long enough to steal him along a careful path to a small cave tucked into the base of the cliffs.
Once inside, she pauses, shifting so that she faces him fully. Twisting so that she is directly between him and his means of escape. Only then does she drop the false sight from his eyes, the distant volcano and the brightness of crisscrossing streams of lava. Only then can he see the truth, the lie revealed. Her gaze, cool and blue fixes upon him, no hint of her motive revealed in the fine, delicate lines of her features.
“I do apologize for the ruse, Canaan, but I thought it easier to get you here without a fuss. I would rather not hurt you.” Her voice is soft, almost companionable, but there is steel in the velvet of her tone. With a small, humorless smile, she adds, “Welcome to your new home.”
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
don't put my love on your back burner; never let anything that hot get cold
Perhaps a bit too trusting, his deep and unwavering concern for his mother, who he knew too well had a predilection to saying what is on her mind (even when she should leave well enough alone), is at the forefront of any innate instinct he might have about the unusual situation. He is quiet, but wary, his golden gaze held steady upon the speckling of obsidian across her ivory and charcoal skin.
She is unfamiliar to him, but her rigid posture and the unyielding silence is nearly enough to stir suspicion, but the path to the volcanic island is well-trodden and typical in its scenery (the thick brush, the occasional smattering of jagged boulders from when the ground had reformed itself) – so much so that he is unaware of how much time had passed, more unnerved by her muteness than by the unusual amount of time traveled.
Sooner than she might have liked, the ruse has begun to slip – the ocean, and its subtle rumbling roar, is nearby, but the scent lingering in the air is not at all what he remembers. The brow line above his eyes is furrowed in thought; the thick line of humidity he was used to enveloping him had not come, and the sea is somehow different - there is an updraft of wind that laces itself through his long, haphazard tresses, and it is cool to the touch, and carries a scent he has never experienced before.
There were few things in life Canaan knew as well as the wind, and its updraft is not at all usual for the volcanic isle – something is not right, and just as his dark lips part in protest, the illusion that is Tephra falls away, and in its wake, something unfamiliar, with jagged crags and steep overhangs – nothing of what he is used to. Nothing of what he has known.
It is then that he realizes she has turned towards him, her eyes carrying no warmth – her piercing gaze is as frigid as she is, and her humorless smile does not provoke one of his own.
I would rather not hurt you, she says so simply, but he cannot imagine why she would want to.
He has done nothing to her – and yet she has brought him here, so far away from what he has known – why?
”Why?
It is a simple question, but full of weight. Within him, a zephyr emerges, though he does well to quell its tempestuous urge.
He does not yet know what she is capable of – if she can veil the Earth in her illusions, what else might she be capable of?
”Why me? I don’t even know you –“
But you know my mother, he recognizes, uncertainty glimmering within his gaze. And she isn’t here.
”How do you know my name? What do you want from me?”
Whatever his thoughts, whatever his suspicions, it really is rather moot at this point. She has him just where she wants him, just where she needs him to be. He would have the whole of Nerine to contend with now if he chose to escape, even if her powers decided to fail her. Besides, she is fairly certain the threat of death would keep him well enough contained. He does not strike her as the suicidal sort.
So she allows his weighty gaze to roll off of her, instead quirking one equine brow in questioning disdain. He would only know what she allowed him to know, but she did feel it best he be aware of just whose fault it is that he is here, with her, instead of safely by his mother’s side.
After a heavy pause, she finally responds with a soft, “Your mother, naturally.” The words are said as almost an afterthought, but it is very clear they are not. “I was not lying when I said I had just seen her.”
Glancing past him towards to craggy back wall of the shallow cave, her sharp blue gaze goes unfocused, distant, for the briefest of moments before hardening into chips of blue ice. Shifting, she fixes him with that piercing stare. “Suffice to say, your mother should really learn to hold her tongue.” And she is certainly not above being the one to teach her to do so.
She considers him for a long moment, mulling over prospects, opportunities, things he would likely shudder to think of. Finally, in an almost offhand manner, she murmurs, “All I want from you is your presence.”
A slow, vaguely amused smile curves her lips, barely present but certainly not a good sign for him. “Speaking of, hold still. I would hate to hit something important.”
With no further warning, she strips the tips of his feathered wings, the dust falling away to leave only ragged ends. A decidedly effective means of keeping him grounded, of keeping him from slipping away the moment her back is turned.
She certainly couldn’t have that. She would not have anyone thinking her a poor kidnapper.
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
don't put my love on your back burner; never let anything that hot get cold
. Her explanation is paltry at best; poorly executed. His mother was capable of many things – physical and verbal, but he was left with little else but his own imagination as to what she had done to elicit such a response. A shiver traverses the surface of his broad wings, which twitch irritably at each side, a wayward glance given to the pale sky overhead. Darkness was already beginning to descend, and its shadow gently touched his cheek, where a different kind of darkness lie.
There is some vague mention of his mother learning to hold her tongue, and he can only imagine the ego required to take simple words to such an elevated level. His gaze is settled upon the piercing cobalt of her own, following their sweeping motion towards a dark, rather insidious looking cave – and a shiver traverses the length of his spine, as an uneasiness sets in.
”You’ve brought me here because my mother hurt your feelings?” he asks flatly, the crease between his eyes deepening into a scowl – a perplexed one, at that. ”Is that it?”
But her steady gaze is boring into him, and he is uncomfortable, feeling her trace where the muscle and bone come together – rippling beneath his pale, golden skin – she is looking for weakness, no doubt – looking for any semblance of strength, too.
Then, the atmosphere shifts - changes - and with nothing else but a softly spoken warning, the edges of his feathers are nothing but dust in the wind, carried off to some distant corner of Nerine, while he is left incredulous, flexing the length of his wing and observing the gaps where the long, finely preened feathers had once been. A glance is spared to her, while dread stirs and rolls in the pit of his belly. He knew there was more to her than visual illusion alone – and nausea drapes over him like a heavily stitched cloak at the idea of what else she could disintegrate.
All I want from you is your presence, she murmurs softly, and he hesitates.
His presence, or something else?
”Look, you seem like a .. a nice .. something – well, maybe not even that – but I have a family.” His voice is quiet then, his mind drifting to Circinae wading through the crystalline water with their sons – their beautiful sons, with laughter bubbling up from their little lungs, and his heart is suddenly aching as the reality of the situation settles between his shoulders.
”I have a family to get back to; don’t do this - please. Let me go.”
She is not in the habit of explaining herself, so the fact that he had received one at all is in and of itself rather impressive. Quite frankly, she feels no compulsion to explain herself further. He would find out soon enough. And frankly, at this point, the less he knows, the better.
As it turns out, it seems his mother is not the only one who would do well to hold her tongue. In this case, he does have some cause for his rather sharp questions, but as he is not familiar with the situation, it really is not his place to comment on such things. The supposition amuses her though, which is perhaps good for him. He would have at least some small reprieve from her own sharp reprisals.
Lips quirking into a faintly amused smirk, she tilts her head as she considers him. “I suppose you could say that.” Although there is a distinct difference between insult to one’s self and insult to one’s children. A lesson Ellyse would learn the hard way. Still, she feels no particular compunction to alter Canaan’s assumption on that score. She doesn’t particularly care if he thinks well of her or not. Indeed, the worse he views her, the more satisfying her revenge would be.
His next comment, an assumption even worse than the first, catches her entirely by surprise. So much so that it causes her brows to fly upwards as she takes an instinctive step backwards. “Oh, hell no,” she blurts out before she can censor her words. Suddenly, she laughs, a wholly unexpected sound. It has been ages since she has laughed, and this situation is positively absurd. Finally curbing her amusement, she pins him with disdainful stare. “Trust me, I want nothing of your… charms. And so long as you behave and do as I ask, you will see your family again one day.”
She would say no less for wear, but she can’t quite guarantee that. She has plans, after all.
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
don't put my love on your back burner; never let anything that hot get cold
There is no flicker of smile – no gleam of light in the darkness of his gaze, settled heavily upon her, tracing the feminine features of her face (hardened with resolve, at times, but still visually soft), down to the tense muscle that lay beneath her skin. He is often warm, forthcoming – and yet with her, he is drawn into himself – quiet. Calculating. There is a definitive itch where the feathers one lay across the broad edge of each wing; an itch of what was missing. He knew little of how capable she was, and the subtle threat to his manhood was both unnerving but altogether expected.
Women did not know how to level themselves with men without intimidation.
(His mother was no exception.)
She is, however, unabashedly honest – he could not think of many who would freely admit to their bruised ego as to a cause for revenge, and though he finds it decidedly petty, he has little leverage against her. The gentle breeze sweeping up from the jagged bluff tangles itself within his dark, haphazard tresses, and the temptation to wield it – to force her through the tangle of dry brush and over it to an inevitable death with a gust of wind was almost impossible to swallow.
But he does not.
She had yet to harm him (there is a simmering ire at the sensation of his bare, useless wings tucked tightly against his sides, but there is no pain). There had to be something more to it.
She rebukes him; he is hardly offended. If anything, he is relieved.
(She is beautiful – he would be a fool not to see it; not to feel some stirring of attraction – but she is spiteful, biting, bitter.)
”She won’t come looking for me,” he mutters finally, unblinking, his gaze boring into her unapologetically. It is a risk to tell her such information (she could use it against him; keep him against his will – but if she had no desire to abuse or to use him, it seemed doubtful). ”I never stay in one place – no one will think to come looking for me. You’re wasting your time.”
She has never found shame in using intimidation as a tactic for subduing her enemies. Indeed, when one is as physically delicate as she, it is necessary. With her narrow shoulders and refined features, she is hardly any physical threat to anyone. She does not have the bodily strength to win out over a stallion like Canaan without using her wiles to back her up. And in his case, given his own rather impressive abilities, she really had no alternative. She is not fool enough to believe he would have come (much less stayed) by his own volition.
Frankly, she is being far too kind, given the situation. Of course, her aim has never been to hurt him. Not that she would hesitate to do so were he to give her reason. She is not a fool, and no threat is believable if one does not also have the will to back it up. He is clever enough to see through any such guise, and she is neither good nor pure enough to offer any such thing.
So he is stuck with her petty feminine intimidation. Really though, typical male to think she might be able to level any other way.
A this point however, it seems they are at a draw though. Who could wield their power more quickly? As a betting woman however, she is more than willing to take the risk that he has no desire to see whether he could blow her off a cliff before she could turn his internal organs to dust. She is a rather quick draw, after all.
It seems though, that he is finally coming to terms with his situation. Still, he does seem to be digging into the very dregs of his argument to come up with a reason she might let him go. He really should give her more credit. “I’m well aware,” she responds easily, without hesitation. “Why don’t you let me decide whether it is a waste of my time or not. Besides, if the point were to draw your mother to me, I would have chosen a much more effective method.” No, the longer she could keep Canaan here without Ellyse’s notice, the better. It would make the ultimate confrontation all the sweeter.
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
