[private] holiday party; wallace

[woolf]

bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please

 
He had promised that he would back. 

He had told her that he wouldn’t stay away—he would give her the space she needed to reunite with her family, but he wouldn’t be gone forever. And he meant to stick to it. After a day or so passed, the time stretched thin and restless with her gone, he had returned back to the island. This time though, the island was half covered in snow and there was a massive bridge connecting it to the nearest land.

It was festive and while he would usually not feel anything in response to it, he felt warm. His emerald eyes were bright and a little wild as he stepped across the bridge, his heavy hooves sinking into the sand and then the snow. He didn’t waste anytime in finding her, didn’t pretend that he was here for anything else. Instead, he walked straight through the snow and the festivities around them.

His dark-berry lips tipped up, and he reached for her, touching the curve of her cheek.

“I believe that I promised you a date,” he whispered softly, stepping back and tilting his head, gesturing toward the party before them. “I hope that this will do.” Not that he played any part in it—not really. But as he began to walk by her side, the sky above them opened up a little more and snow flurries began to fall down, soft and white and blanketing the broad expanse of his back. He said nothing, even though his shoulder was stained, and just smiled a little, tilting his head back to appreciate his handiwork.

When he looked back down, there was an unusual softness to his usually stern face.

“I never thought I would be one who enjoyed parties,” he mused quietly, falling quiet next to her.

woolf

I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste