I can see through you, see your true colors
Cause inside you're ugly, you're ugly like me
Cause inside you're ugly, you're ugly like me
“I stay..” She hesitates and there’s a moment where he wants to press her, to make her more forthcoming but it passes as quickly as it comes when her words come out duller then she probably intended. She is smarter then he guesses, he would try to find a way to use that knowledge against her... If given a reason. As she speaks of the flowers, of what they truly are called, he simply says nothing. He knows well what they are, what they do, and why he uses them. It’s his inability to lie that keeps him silent for she had guessed too closely. Had figured him out from the moment she had brought up what he sought from the pollen. To not care, to forget. Only a glint in the hard glass of red gives away the acknowledgment of what she had said as his gaze turns from her and follows her line of sight out to the sea.
He can feel her searching eyes on him (those frosted lakes cracking into something brilliant) as he comes to stand beside her but stubbornly refuses to look back, keeping that vermillion gaze locked on the waves. She already saw too much of him, had managed to peel back the layers of himself he would rather keep locked away. He tightens that armor around him as his expression turns into something smooth and harder to read. Wind whips unruly strands of black and gold around his visage, wind stinging at his face and threatening to bring tears to his eyes that he successfully blinks away. He still refuses to look at her when she finally gives her name. How fitting, an obscene "revelrie" is what happened nightly amongst the wildflowers but in this moment they are far from festive and wanton. “Who is the Prince of the Pampas?” A more complex question then she realizes and one that gives him pause.
The storm is coming closer, a gale that threatens to sweep them out to sea, but he stands steadfast beside her. If she will not flinch then he certainly will not. It’s becoming harder to tell if it’s the thunder that’s shaking the granite beneath his hooves or the sudden rush of adrenaline that crashes through his veins. Something about the storm (and something about her) makes him feel increasingly reckless or maybe it’s just that strange twisting flame within him that refuses to settle, something slick and coiled as if ready to strike. Despite never hearing many stories before, he thinks he might try one on for size. “Do you like stories Revelrie?” He asks her quietly after another clash of thunder rumbles overhead. He doesn’t wait for her answer and begins to tell her one anyway.
“Once there was a King of Fire. He was a decent king and his people were loyal to him but he was lonely, his fire burned too bright and too hot. None seemed capable of withstanding his flames. He found that as his loneliness grew, so did the weight of his crown. He looked high and low for someone that could handle his flames but all he seemed to do was burn the ones that tried. The weight grew heavier until he thought he might simply fall beneath and become nothing but ash. He gave up looking and accepted his doom.”
“Once there was a Queen of Sisters who had fallen from grace. She lost her crown, broken and splintered, when another took from her what he didn’t deserve. She withdrew from the world, withdrew from herself, and succumbed to the loss of dignity, loss of control, and loss of what she once had been.”
“One day the King of Fire met the fallen Queen of Sisters and found that she did not recoil from his flames. One day the Queen of Sisters met a King of Fire and found that his burning touch was cleansing. Through trial and tribulation they fell in love and he gave up his crown for the Fallen Queen and the son that grew inside her. One day the King of Fire told this story to that son, thinking he might be filled with the same fire that filled him, a love story of his creation and a warning. Something his boy could hold on to when the nights were long and cold.”
“But he was wrong. The son listened to this story and found it lacking. For the weight still seemed to hang heavy on both their shoulders, ex-King and ex-Queen. They seemed to be nothing without their crowns and whatever love they felt for him they seemed to keep for themselves. Not long after the story was told, the King of Fire seemed to withdraw into his own flames and disappeared and then the Queen of Sisters followed. The son was left to fend for himself, becoming a wild and feral thing with not a flicker of spark to be seen that his father had warned him about. Instead of fire something colder began to build in him instead.”
He falls silent, coming to a sudden realization.
He really hated stories.
“Is there a moral there? I wonder.” He asks her, eyes glittering like dark rubies as rain begins to stain his dark pelt into something blacker, oily and slick. The gold smeared along his face and chest remains, stubbornly clinging to his skin no matter how hard water tries to wash it away. There is a bitterness he hadn’t intended to seep into his telling of the tale but it lingers now with that simple question, his lips pressed tight against each other as his gaze turns back to the gloomy churning waters that froth before them.
It hadn’t been his intention to give her so much but now it was there, a part of himself exposed in the bits and bobbins of a story twisted to hide so many truths. With a small grunt of exasperation at himself he finally turns his burning eyes back to her. “Obscene.” He finally says after looking at her, hard. “Do you find my name fitting? Others do.” He can’t help but recall the way Cheri had laughed, drunk on nectar, when she had realized what he was called and that violent thing within him seems to spasm and coil again.
He can feel her searching eyes on him (those frosted lakes cracking into something brilliant) as he comes to stand beside her but stubbornly refuses to look back, keeping that vermillion gaze locked on the waves. She already saw too much of him, had managed to peel back the layers of himself he would rather keep locked away. He tightens that armor around him as his expression turns into something smooth and harder to read. Wind whips unruly strands of black and gold around his visage, wind stinging at his face and threatening to bring tears to his eyes that he successfully blinks away. He still refuses to look at her when she finally gives her name. How fitting, an obscene "revelrie" is what happened nightly amongst the wildflowers but in this moment they are far from festive and wanton. “Who is the Prince of the Pampas?” A more complex question then she realizes and one that gives him pause.
The storm is coming closer, a gale that threatens to sweep them out to sea, but he stands steadfast beside her. If she will not flinch then he certainly will not. It’s becoming harder to tell if it’s the thunder that’s shaking the granite beneath his hooves or the sudden rush of adrenaline that crashes through his veins. Something about the storm (and something about her) makes him feel increasingly reckless or maybe it’s just that strange twisting flame within him that refuses to settle, something slick and coiled as if ready to strike. Despite never hearing many stories before, he thinks he might try one on for size. “Do you like stories Revelrie?” He asks her quietly after another clash of thunder rumbles overhead. He doesn’t wait for her answer and begins to tell her one anyway.
“Once there was a King of Fire. He was a decent king and his people were loyal to him but he was lonely, his fire burned too bright and too hot. None seemed capable of withstanding his flames. He found that as his loneliness grew, so did the weight of his crown. He looked high and low for someone that could handle his flames but all he seemed to do was burn the ones that tried. The weight grew heavier until he thought he might simply fall beneath and become nothing but ash. He gave up looking and accepted his doom.”
“Once there was a Queen of Sisters who had fallen from grace. She lost her crown, broken and splintered, when another took from her what he didn’t deserve. She withdrew from the world, withdrew from herself, and succumbed to the loss of dignity, loss of control, and loss of what she once had been.”
“One day the King of Fire met the fallen Queen of Sisters and found that she did not recoil from his flames. One day the Queen of Sisters met a King of Fire and found that his burning touch was cleansing. Through trial and tribulation they fell in love and he gave up his crown for the Fallen Queen and the son that grew inside her. One day the King of Fire told this story to that son, thinking he might be filled with the same fire that filled him, a love story of his creation and a warning. Something his boy could hold on to when the nights were long and cold.”
“But he was wrong. The son listened to this story and found it lacking. For the weight still seemed to hang heavy on both their shoulders, ex-King and ex-Queen. They seemed to be nothing without their crowns and whatever love they felt for him they seemed to keep for themselves. Not long after the story was told, the King of Fire seemed to withdraw into his own flames and disappeared and then the Queen of Sisters followed. The son was left to fend for himself, becoming a wild and feral thing with not a flicker of spark to be seen that his father had warned him about. Instead of fire something colder began to build in him instead.”
He falls silent, coming to a sudden realization.
He really hated stories.
“Is there a moral there? I wonder.” He asks her, eyes glittering like dark rubies as rain begins to stain his dark pelt into something blacker, oily and slick. The gold smeared along his face and chest remains, stubbornly clinging to his skin no matter how hard water tries to wash it away. There is a bitterness he hadn’t intended to seep into his telling of the tale but it lingers now with that simple question, his lips pressed tight against each other as his gaze turns back to the gloomy churning waters that froth before them.
It hadn’t been his intention to give her so much but now it was there, a part of himself exposed in the bits and bobbins of a story twisted to hide so many truths. With a small grunt of exasperation at himself he finally turns his burning eyes back to her. “Obscene.” He finally says after looking at her, hard. “Do you find my name fitting? Others do.” He can’t help but recall the way Cheri had laughed, drunk on nectar, when she had realized what he was called and that violent thing within him seems to spasm and coil again.
obscene
@revelrie