I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
For a moment, he wonders if she thinks that he is jealous. As if he was a lovesick puppy who mourns over someone else touching his bone. It brings a cold smile to his face, the darkness of the crushed gold empty and aching. She has no idea. “I’m not sure how well it suits you. You look like a well fed tick,” was all he responds at first, his dark eyes tracing her face. At her wink, he sighs, rolling his eyes. “I could not care less for the fun you’ve had. I imagine you’re well-worn around the edges by such ‘fun.’”
How crass for her to brag of it; how foolish to think she could push his buttons.
Then, he brings his focus back to the task at hand, lids half-closing in concentration as he continues to pluck at the strings of the fear. She is stubborn, but he knows he can break her down. He knows, with a little patience, he can warp her world, loosen the foundation beneath her. He doesn’t need to dissolve the reality around her completely—just make tweaks, small edits. Paint the landscape with the dip-dyed edges of his paintbrush, mold her reality with the pressure and skill of his own palms. Darker, more foreboding.
Make her see a monster when she looks upon him. Let her see the truth.
He does not jolt when the voice calls from the neighboring land. Instead, he swivels his heavy horned head toward the border, his smile slow and cold, lips pulling back from his teeth. “I don’t think I shall,” he growls, low in his throat but loud enough for the other to hear him. He moves in front of Karaugh with that supernatural speed, that alien grace, mind still plucking deftly at the strings of the Fear.
When he hears his father’s voice call out, sharp as steel, he glances up. Love did not beat within Bruise’s heart, but it was the closest he had come to it—affection, perhaps. Respect, most assuredly. His father was the one creature he would bow his head to; Master and Commander of the Fear. He gives his father a mimicry of his own crocodile smile, turning back toward the mare behind him with a glint in his eye.
“Not hardly,” his voice is smooth, deepening as he loses himself in the tapestry of Fear he weaves. Let her see Stillwater, but let her see him far away. Let Pollock’s voice ring loud—let it drip with terror. Let the wasteland of Pangea stretch and morph and mutate in her mind’s eye. “She has much to learn, Father.”
Bruise catches onto Karaugh’s gaze and holds it steady with a predator’s precision.
“Meet the King who rules these lands.”
A sickening smile, the Fear causing blood to begin dripping from between his teeth and over his lip.
“We do not care for diplomacy here.”
