06-07-2021, 09:43 AM
She is almost set on ignoring him - his goading amusement and the way he calls her darling yet again despite that she had told him not to. It is a word that carries a certain kind of implied fondness, a word that makes something in the back of her mind wonder at what it would be like to be called darling unironically. But the curiosity is a vulnerability that she rankles at, a vulnerability like a weak spot in the armor she’s thrown together so haphazardly. It is no wonder that he is so good at finding weak spots, she must be full of them, made of them.
If she were more clever she might realize that this was a battle not worth fighting, one that he is almost certainly guaranteed to win if only because the wounds on her heart are too raw and too new and breathe a wild kind of recklessness into her not suited for his level of verbal sparring. But she is not clever, or if she ever was it is now drowned beneath a stubbornness that forces those sky blue eyes to an almost glacial fury. Except that it is only partly fury, only partly wrath. That shade of blue belongs to broken things, to pain and hurt and the kind of despair she does not know how to escape. It is a blue that carves her sharper than any blade but does not know how to wield her.
“I stay because this place -” But she cuts herself off abruptly, that roil of blue almost writhing in the bottoms of those sad eyes. She had been about to tell him what this place meant to her, this one last sanctuary in a world so good at collapsing around her. But certainly if he knew that, if he knew anything more intimate about the workings of her heart, he would find ways to use it against her. To wound her. “I didn’t stay for the company.” She says instead, and her soft voice is a little too jagged to be barbed as she had meant it to be.
Her eyes had wandered from him again as though if she stared long enough at the approaching storm she could just fall right into it and be gone from here, from him. But he speaks and there is some kind of new unnameable emotion like a shade of copper among his streaks of gold. She frowns, and the expression softens something among the broken glass of her face until she looks almost gentle in her shared curiosity. “I guess I don’t know what you’re looking for.” She says, studying him for a moment. “Only guesses.” Only her own purposes, her own truths. It hadn’t occurred to her until just this moment that maybe he found something else in the flowers, something besides time erased. “You know some call them the forgetting flowers?” It is the closest she can come to saying what she had meant, what she herself had used the flowers for at one time so recently. The closest she can come to being any kind of vulnerable with him.
But she is growing softer without even realizing it. The tension has drained some from her face, and the ire has faded so that her eyes are a shade of blue like early summer morning as he comes to stand beside her. All of it fades away though when he speaks those seven perfect words. It’s when I like it best here. Her face turns sharply to him, and she doesn’t know what she’s looking for until her mind decides that it doesn’t seem like a lie. There is no amused smirk on his mouth, no laughter in those nearly predator-sharp eyes. So she has absolutely no reason to lie either when she finally says, much softer now, “Me too.” But she finds herself unwilling to look away from him now, especially when this close she can see him in so much more detail. He truly is something beautiful - but beautiful in the way fire is, or a storm. Not in the way flowers are when they bloom throughout spring.
He is something wild, she thinks.
And there is nothing more beautiful than that which is wild.
She’s still watching him in this quiet way when he murmurs, low beneath the wind and waves, a new question that makes her hesitate. He wants her name. There is a soft furrowing of her brow beneath her forelock, a shape of worry to the roundness of those thawed glacial eyes. An observant man might notice the weight of her silence for the gift it is when she finally whispers back, “My name is Revelrie.” She doesn’t expect a name back but she asks anyway, finally letting her gaze drift from those burning lantern eyes of his to look out with a half-smile at the turmoil of clouds nearly to them now. “What about you?” She says, timing the question after a boom of thunder she swears shakes the earth beneath her feet. “Who is the Prince of the Pampas?” She wants more than a name, wants a story to go with it, but as her gaze flicks briefly back to his face she knows she could be content with just a name for now.
If she were more clever she might realize that this was a battle not worth fighting, one that he is almost certainly guaranteed to win if only because the wounds on her heart are too raw and too new and breathe a wild kind of recklessness into her not suited for his level of verbal sparring. But she is not clever, or if she ever was it is now drowned beneath a stubbornness that forces those sky blue eyes to an almost glacial fury. Except that it is only partly fury, only partly wrath. That shade of blue belongs to broken things, to pain and hurt and the kind of despair she does not know how to escape. It is a blue that carves her sharper than any blade but does not know how to wield her.
“I stay because this place -” But she cuts herself off abruptly, that roil of blue almost writhing in the bottoms of those sad eyes. She had been about to tell him what this place meant to her, this one last sanctuary in a world so good at collapsing around her. But certainly if he knew that, if he knew anything more intimate about the workings of her heart, he would find ways to use it against her. To wound her. “I didn’t stay for the company.” She says instead, and her soft voice is a little too jagged to be barbed as she had meant it to be.
Her eyes had wandered from him again as though if she stared long enough at the approaching storm she could just fall right into it and be gone from here, from him. But he speaks and there is some kind of new unnameable emotion like a shade of copper among his streaks of gold. She frowns, and the expression softens something among the broken glass of her face until she looks almost gentle in her shared curiosity. “I guess I don’t know what you’re looking for.” She says, studying him for a moment. “Only guesses.” Only her own purposes, her own truths. It hadn’t occurred to her until just this moment that maybe he found something else in the flowers, something besides time erased. “You know some call them the forgetting flowers?” It is the closest she can come to saying what she had meant, what she herself had used the flowers for at one time so recently. The closest she can come to being any kind of vulnerable with him.
But she is growing softer without even realizing it. The tension has drained some from her face, and the ire has faded so that her eyes are a shade of blue like early summer morning as he comes to stand beside her. All of it fades away though when he speaks those seven perfect words. It’s when I like it best here. Her face turns sharply to him, and she doesn’t know what she’s looking for until her mind decides that it doesn’t seem like a lie. There is no amused smirk on his mouth, no laughter in those nearly predator-sharp eyes. So she has absolutely no reason to lie either when she finally says, much softer now, “Me too.” But she finds herself unwilling to look away from him now, especially when this close she can see him in so much more detail. He truly is something beautiful - but beautiful in the way fire is, or a storm. Not in the way flowers are when they bloom throughout spring.
He is something wild, she thinks.
And there is nothing more beautiful than that which is wild.
She’s still watching him in this quiet way when he murmurs, low beneath the wind and waves, a new question that makes her hesitate. He wants her name. There is a soft furrowing of her brow beneath her forelock, a shape of worry to the roundness of those thawed glacial eyes. An observant man might notice the weight of her silence for the gift it is when she finally whispers back, “My name is Revelrie.” She doesn’t expect a name back but she asks anyway, finally letting her gaze drift from those burning lantern eyes of his to look out with a half-smile at the turmoil of clouds nearly to them now. “What about you?” She says, timing the question after a boom of thunder she swears shakes the earth beneath her feet. “Who is the Prince of the Pampas?” She wants more than a name, wants a story to go with it, but as her gaze flicks briefly back to his face she knows she could be content with just a name for now.
REVELRIE
it feels like falling, it feels like rain,
like losing my balance again and again
@Obscene <3