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 has a difficult time imagining her as ever being nothing—as ever being nothing but the water.
Still, it brings a hint of a smile to his face, a curve of heavy lip, an amused glint to his emerald eyes. “It is much the same in space. You are nothing but the galaxies spinning. Nothing but starfire and dust.” He remembers the cold and the heat and the moments of nothing in between; the way that he and his sister hung suspended between the particles, floating through the cosmos as though they lived there.
But his memory is cut short as she pulls deeper from her own well of power, the frost in the air beginning to spin and circulate, twisting on its axis. He watches it, giving her display of magic its deserved attention as it begins to spiral around them. Fully intrigued, he takes a step forward, feeling the heat of her through even the frost of her creation, the ice of her body. “I know because I am,” he breathes in response, feeling his magic seep from him into the ground, the blue light of it causing the earth around them to pulse slightly before the snow begins to fall more steadily, equipping her with even more material.
“Aren’t you?” he asks quietly, stepping closer and closer, drawn in by the gravity of her.
He wants to pull her apart and study her. Wants to understand the threads that compose her, the threads that draw her up, turning her cool and aloof and yet defiant and passionate. He stands close enough that he could reach out and touch her if he wanted, could close that final distance between them, but he has never been someone driven by the more base desires and he keeps the space, finding her eyes once more.
“Do you miss it, sometimes?”
He does.
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
