Brinly
There had been a moment when her eyes had locked with his.
Like twin stars, only they shone a burnt-gold, and for a solitary moment she is mesmerized enough that she hardly notices the star-dusted cloak of darkness that shadows him, or the way his very skin seems to be made of the night sky.
He is striking, but it isn’t the color of his eyes that froze her in place, though.
It was the way he seemed to look through her, as if he had torn apart every carefully crafted layer, peeling her back to find the raw, wounded, and weak thing that cowered beneath the surface. There is a moment of relief, at this idea of being seen—a spark of hope at the idea of not having to play a part, to not have to be so careful with who she lets close. But it is fleeting, and reflexively, she fortifies every barrier in response to the way her defenses had ever so briefly lowered.
By the time he is in front of her she has already gone rigid and tense, her blood simmering beneath her skin as she wars with hoping he touches her so that she might watch him recoil in pain, yet all the while praying that her irascible demeanor would be enough to keep him at bay. Hurting is never her intention.
The sharpness in her eyes says everything that her tongue does not; a silent warning, a hidden promise that he would not like what he finds should he come closer.
It is only when the stars and the night spill from him and onto her that she falters a little in her guarded stance, the alarm reflecting in her eyes as they flash to catch his, questioning and confused. The night cloaks her, wrapping around her in such a strange, nearly silken way. It feels cool in comparison to her scorching skin, and she wants to lean into it, to see if it becomes more tangible or if she would once again be disappointed to find the only things that can bear to touch her are things that cannot recognize touch at all.
He draws closer, and before she can wrench herself backwards (she always wants to watch them burn, and yet, when faced with the decision, she never lets them) they are suddenly somewhere else, somewhere darker.
The swift teleportation left her breathing rushed and ragged, with a mixture of adrenaline and fear that quickly caves into anger flooding her veins. Her blood feels hotter, and if she had been at all capable of controlling heat in any way, she is sure she would have unleashed it now.
“Sharing?” The word is flung from her tongue the way a cobra might spit venom, wheeling to follow him with her eyes as he surveys their surroundings. She is all at once fascinated by what he has done but equal parts outraged; thrilled at the idea of having him in this pitch black to herself (because parts of her are still so very much her mother’s daughter) while also livid that she is so clearly helpless in comparison to him. “I am not an object to be hoarded or shared,” she continues defiantly, but this time when he closes the space between them she does not step back, though his vicinity makes her nervous.
Everything in her stance, her stare, the very air around her tells him not to touch her.
It portrays itself as a command, in the tight lines of her face and the coiled tautness of muscle beneath her auburn skin, and the way her slender ears tilt back towards a wild mess of black mane. She meets his molten stare with her smoldering own, her jaw clenching tight, but she finds that she cannot hold his gaze for long. She angles her face away, afraid that he will see through it all; see that the anger is a mask for fear, though she thinks he cannot discern why she is afraid.
That she is afraid for him, not of him.
Afraid of seeing those golden eyes widen in surprise and then pain when she burns him, and watching his face contort to anger and accusation when he realizes she had been the one to inflict the injury.
“Brinly,” she counters flatly to his introduction, forcing a tone of indifference because she finds the way that her insides twist at his slight smile to be unsettling. “Did you not get enough of walking in the dark during the eclipse?”
— if i’m on fire, you’ll be made of ashes too —
@Illum