when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
He has ambition too, though Heartfire may not be aware. Wyrm often wonders to what depth her vision can plunge - can she read what he feels every time he looks at her? Does she taste the hunger within him that hollows him out in its desire for more of her attention? Could Heartfire, in her expansive knowledge, ever understand what Wyrm can’t even puzzle out? “She loves you.” His spotted companion tells him and though it touches on something faint and precious, it still doesn’t satisfy. He smiles all the same, a brittle sort of reaction to her tender admission, and listens to her with vivid interest as she continues.
His curiosity is rewarded with touch, such a rare and unexpected gift from her that he stills, becomes totally immobile in only the way that someone who’s familiar with predatory shapes can. The gentle ripple of her sigh has one of his ears tilting back, breaking the spell while she gathers the right words. It’s one of the things he enjoys about her; the directness of her intentions, the cut-and-dry manner in which she summarizes all matters of little or great importance. Her brevity is appreciated, even when she struggles to open herself up. This particular revenge has been keeping a fire lit beneath her and Wyrm wants, more than anything at this point, to feed off that flame.
He wants to be strengthened into a renewed effort to continue the search for her … Bruise? For Bruise? Wyrm blinks, furrows his brow and tucks his head closer to his neck in mild surprise. That ear tipped in her direction flicks back, his jade tail sways once and then slaps at his sides despite the lack of insects around them. His silence is telling enough. The shape-shifter had known the son of Pollock, through common knowledge rather than association. It makes sense, though. Pollock was gifted, if one could call it that, and Bruise perhaps had been born with that same ability. But where the horned creature and Heartfire intersect is still shrouded in mystery and for once, Wyrm would like it to stay that way.
“If I have to dig his bones up from the bed of the Sea and disturb his spirit,” He says evenly, softening the stiff muscles at his throat to reach out and press a firm kiss against her skin, “I’ll do it.” He promises. There was honestly nothing else he cared about. “Your mind is free to travel anywhere, my body permits me the same freedom. Point and I’ll hunt, say the word and I’ll search.” He offers, willing and able to see her at peace again. Her unrest was his to share, whether she asked it of him or not.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
