"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
He comes back, not with the chaos that he had hoped, but with thin spider-webs of tension running through the kingdoms he had visited. It is not enough though—would never be enough—and he finds that he is furious because of it. Furious that they had simply accepted the warnings with a shrug; furious that they did not trust his word and accepted whatever fate may come their way in the future.
Stupid, stupid horses.
As he leaves the Gates, he sheds the disguise and makes his way back to the Chamber, satisfying whatever distasteful bile bit at the back of his tongue by ripping up plants and shriveling trees as he walked. Whoever saw him make his journey would see a wake of destruction behind him, the plants dying and weeds curling into themselves wherever he stepped. He was pure venom in his path.
Weed does not bother to wait near the border of the Chamber, despite the fact that he is a resident and not a member, and instead stalks into the kingdom, slowing down the destruction of plants if only because he knew that Straia enjoyed them. He was willing to save them for her, if only for the moment.
Finally, when he reaches a cool resting part, he comes to a stop and lifts his elegant black head, letting loose a throaty call for the raven Queen. On his shoulder rested the gift that she had given him, the bird made of vines digging its claws into the roping plants draped casually across his back.
The bird had been pleasant enough company, and useful enough, but it had not been enough for him to stir fear into the fat, placid souls of the other kingdom. They were apparently too stupid to pick up on fear when they were staring at its face and so he would be more blunt. If they could not do subtle, he would be happy to oblige their need for the obvious. Let them ignore the flames burning their kingdom down.
The ravens are quick to tell her of his arrival, and she realizes that she is, in fact, surprised. There was a part of her that hadn’t expected him to return. Yes, he had said as much, but what were words really? He is not loyal to the Chamber, or even to her really. He is loyal to himself, to chaos. And at the moment, there was no chaos. Some small rumors on the wind that Weed had planted, but no real reaction.
Beqanna was dull. They were too certain of their peace. Even the Gates, who should be worried, should be on a edge. They too seem almost complacent, building their army for retaliation as if they stand a chance against the Chamber and the Valley. But of course, with the right help, they do, and she cannot discount them as a threat. Even though she would like to think that the Gates could never overpower the Chamber. She, unlike the rest of Beqanna it seems, is not a fool.
Though as it turns out, neither were the Amazons. And there might be something there. Her conversation with their Khaleshi was still a secret, and would stay such. She could not tell even Weed of the details, but rather she must wait for Lagertha to see what her Sisters were willing to do.
But she would admit that she dreams of that alliance. The Amazons, Valley and Chamber together. She can only imagine the destruction they would be able to leave in their wake.
Straia does not run to his call. The ravens peer at him first from the trees, and she watches from their eyes as she weaves herself through the pine forests toward him. She may not run, but she does not necessarily make him wait particularly long either. She has heard of the destruction, the plant life torn up on his path, and knows his mood cannot be good. And she really does like her trees, and would prefer her take his mood out on her, not the landscape.
“Plant,” she says as she slips through the trees into his sight, that mischievous little grin curling her lips as she insists on the nickname he hates so much. She can’t give it up now, after all, even if she has a hundred better nicknames in her head. “You returned,” she says, slipping closer to him, closing the distance, nipping lightly on his back. “How do you like the bird?”
She had not forgotten her tree. She spent quite a bit of time by it, not that she would ever tell him as much. But she had wanted to return the gesture.
straia
the raven queen of the chamber
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission
Weed had not come back for some undying love he held for the Chamber. They both knew that in the same way that they knew he did not come back because of some undying love that he had for her. The word love was too weak—too simplistic, too overused. What Weed felt for Straia had more teeth than that. It was a feral emotion that gnawed at the back of his mind while he was away. It was a vicious emotion that coupled more with violence than it did with sweet nothings. It was emotion that found truth in bloodshed and revealed itself in the pitch darkness of night. It was not a summer love.
So when she comes, a growl rises in his throat, annoyance at missing her coupled with the blackness of his mood. He steps toward her side, teeth on her neck, raking down at. The skin on his back flinches with the closeness, with the enjoyment of the heat from her. “Straia,” her name feels good in his mouth, and he closes his inky eyes, feeling the blood in his veins swell, everything coming into clear focus. It was annoying to find that he actually missed her. Not enough to send him running back to her, but enough to bite at him throughout the day. Enough that he found he enjoyed the bird for the reminder of her.
“The bird was,” he pauses, thoughtfully, voice tight in his throat, “useful.” His teeth nip at her again, and the vines around him dig into his flesh, snaking off of him to reach out to her subconsciously. “I liked it,” he admits finally, the truth burning his mouth just a little. “But I think I like the original better.” His breath is hot on her neck, the vines snaking up her legs to hold onto her—not a little possessively.
11-09-2015, 12:44 PM (This post was last modified: 11-09-2015, 12:45 PM by Straia.)
i am the violence in the pouring rain
i am a hurricane
They would never be some summer love. She could have her summer loves, certainly. Malach had been something of that sort, with a conversation, but never bit at her mind the way Weed does. Kushiel could be a summer sort of love as well, fun to flirt with and nothing more. She never found that she missed them, and in these instances love was far too strong a word anyway. They were fun, and she was bored. There was little more to it than that.
But Weed? Weed was the opposite of them. A winter love, perhaps. Something that could only exist in the darkness, in the feral part of her mind that longed to rip at his flesh and he ripped at hers, inside and out. She can pretend well enough that this isn’t the case, but of course, they both know. They both want, and it is a beautiful, dangerous feeling.
She doesn’t flinch as he rakes across her skin, but almost leans into it, her blood boiling beneath his touch. It isn’t love. It is more than love. It is deeper and darker and more impossibly real than love. She would never miss him in some quiet, sad way. No, instead he simply flitted into her mind as she plotted, reminding her of everything they are, everything they could do to pull the world down around them.
Because in the end, should they succeed, she wants to watch the world burn with him at her side.
A grin curves her lips just slightly when he finally says, ‘I like it.’ The bird, for it’s part, digs it talons just slightly deeper into the plants on Weed’s back, though Straia says nothing. But then he goes one step further, and she cannot help the smile now that plays on her lips. Sly and pleased, and she slips slightly closer, bending into him, her skin tingling where they touch.
The vines hold her in place then, and she does not try to break free. She could protest, of course. Perhaps she should. For who dares to hold her so possessively? But in the end, she cannot bring herself to mind. After all, she’s also the type of girl who really likes being pushed against the wall, so to speak. “It’s growing quickly. Larger every day,” she says, admitting indirectly that she checks on her tree daily. It is her ritual.
“I do enjoy it. Not quite as much as this, though.” Her grin is wicked now, and she turns her head to bite at his skin again, nipping at the places she can reach without breaking the vines that hold her in place.
They twist and turn around one another, knives at each other’s throats, and he knows as well as she that she may one day lean a little too far and slash his jugular—but isn’t that the thrill? They are not loyal to one another and do not whisper lies into each other’s ears; they see each other as they are. As the truly are. She knows him for his cruelty and his wandering eye, and he knows her for her unsung ambitions. He knows that underneath the honeyed, practiced smile of a Queen that she is a dictator. Oh, she may play the part, but she would as soon give a command as request it and her heart sings for the same chaos as his.
Of course, there are many who say as much. There are many who come crawling to the Chamber and make their whispers of wanting destruction—but how many would bleed for it? How many would actually cut off their limb to see it happen? Not many. That much he knows. They were committed until they had to actually give something for the cause and then they are reduced to sniveling cowards.
Not Weed. Not Straia.
He leans into the curled talons of the bird, its claws missing the vines and digging into the flesh. He looks back and then at Straia. “That hurt,” he says simply, vines tightening around her legs briefly before he loosens them. One more scar was ultimately not the worst thing to happen to him. His beautiful body was already riddled with them—mostly self-inflicted—but still. He preferred to be the only one making scars.
The pain though is forgotten in the wickedness of her smile, and he lets it slide, biting her back. “Of course you missed this, but I want to hear you say it.” He leans forward, breath rolling over her ears, the distance between them closing every second. “Say that you missed me, Straia.” Weed draws his head back just a little, enough to catch her gaze and hold it, the obsidian of his eyes flashing dangerously with want.
She has grown up her entire life knowing what the Chamber is capable of. What it asks for, in return for greatness. Yes, she worked for the greatness of the Chamber, but with it came her own power, her own greatness. Some simply belonged to her now, the raven magic in her veins, but she knows it is a gift from the land. Some of her talents would be taken away when she no longer ruled, because she would no longer need to be able to stop a heart, to live forever (though she could live forever anyway, feeing off the life force of her ravens). But those were small sacrifices. Atrox had given his heart. Warship had given his freedom.
What would Straia be asked to give? Her life? She has already offered it. Her heart? Unlikely, the kingdom does not need two. Her family? She has given much of that as well, sacrificed her relationships with them for her kingdom.
But the Chamber might ask for more. And she would give it. In the same way Weed would give everything for chaos, for the one chance to watch the world crumble. In her mind, they stand strong and tall above the chaos, having lit the fire and then stepped back to watch it burn. But there is another version of that picture, and sometimes it creeps into her mind unbidden. They are still together, and the world still burns, but in version they both die, alive only long enough to see it all begin. It is not her first choice, but she does not fear the possibility of it.
And she believes that he does not fear the possibility of it either. She imagines that the same images run in his head. She may or may not be in his version (to be fair, she’d watch the world burn without him, if she had to), but she trusts that he’ll give everything. Just as she will too. Greatness never comes without its price.
No, it will never be love between them. It is too powerful, too great, too impossible to ever be something so simple as love. They are more than that. They will always be more than that.
She laughs at his words, knowing he doesn’t mind the pain. He’s the one who curled himself into the talons, after all. He seeks pain like she does. It’s a reminder of what it’s like to be alive, to be untethered from anything but the present and the thousand possibilities the future holds. “Lies are unbecoming on you,” she says, which is of course in itself a lie. He is a liar. There’s no denying that. Their last plan had been built entirely on lies.
“If I say it now, how will you know that I mean it? How will you know that I’m not simply saying it to hear what else you can offer?” It is a valid question, though he’s no fool. And she, too, is a liar sometimes. It’s a lie she does not try to conceal; their eyes locked together, the want becoming almost a need in her eyes. It’s like a fire that start in a her belly and radiates out, consumes her. They could be closer. They should be closer.
No, no. They need to be.
And then, very quietly, she says it. “I missed you.”
straia
the raven queen of the chamber
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission
“You wouldn’t lie to me,” he says simply, elegant voice unusually husky, mane disheveled. She was the one of the only who ever saw him like this—who saw him stripped to the core. He much preferred to keep the mirage, keep the glossy exterior; it made it easy to manipulate others around you when you remained so unruffled. So with others, he remained calm, composed. He was handsome and smooth and his eyes were as dark and undisturbed as inky pools. He was a demon, but he was an unnaturally controlled one.
“Just like I would not lie to you.”
They both knew what they were—liars, tricksters—but not between one another. He did not feel the urge to pull the wool over her eyes, so to speak, and he knew she did the same with him. Were his trust ever to be betrayed. Well, he would just deal with that then. He closes his eyes when she finally admits it, and he shivers a little with the delight of it, eyes brighter when they open and catch her gaze. “Good.”
For a second, he considers holding his own truth back, selfishly keeping it to himself, but he consents, offers it to her in the same manner that he had given her the tree. “I missed you too,” his voice is low, so soft you could miss it with the blowing of a wind. “I did not like it.” And he hadn’t. He did not like that his mind had been occupied with thoughts of her—her sharp tongue, her curves, her powerful mind.
Weed does not let the conversation say soft for long though, was not natural there, and the vines crawl up a little more on her legs as the bird’s talons dig a little further into the muscle of his shoulder. “Rumors did not seem to stir up enough fear in the kingdoms. They are lazy, bloated on peace, sedated by years of inaction.” His smile is sharp, cruel, “But rumors have a way of settling and spiderwebs of tension have a way of becoming fault lines with a little pressure.” Another pause, “What say we make some of those rumors become a little more,” he brightens here, searching for the wording, “honest. A little more real.”
Why wage war as the Chamber when they could march on a kingdom as someone else entirely?
They were so alike. It was what drew them together, that desire to be themselves (impossibly wild and alive with the possibilities of the world). It would also likely be their downfall. She could not lie to him even if she wanted, because he would know. He could not lie to her either. They could taste the truth of one another’s words in their own mouths, knew how the other could craft a lie. It is good, of course, that neither seeks to deceive the other. But what happens when the time came for deceit? Because eventually, it might be necessary.
She served the Chamber. He served himself.
But she does not think of that, because she cannot truly imagine a situation in which they would not be honest. She could imagine simply telling him should one day the status quo change. She can imagine them burning each other to the ground instead of burning the world to the ground, but wouldn’t that be a beautiful thing too. She could end that like, lost beneath his vines and he beneath her ravens. They could destroy the world first, and eventually, they might one day also destroy each other.
One accidental slip of a talon over the wrong vein. A moment’s grip too long from the kiss of a vine.
He admits that he missed her at all, and she is surprised at how those words settle over her like a comforting blanket. Surprised at how much she enjoys hearing the words, even if the sentiment does not surprise her. Of course he missed her, in the same way she had missed him. That gnawing at the back of her mind, that impossible to shake thought. Still, she sinks into him a bit more as he whispers the words.
He switches topics, the vines on her legs tighter now, and she does not mind. Neither of them can stay in that place long, where words are soft and emotions are raw. They are not creatures that wear emotions on their sleeves and tongues. They are creatures of action, of little gifts and hints of pain. A smile curves on his lips at the idea. “I suspect we are facing a war. Against the Gates, with perhaps the rest of Beqanna on their side.” It would be an unfair fight, certainly, if the Amazons sided with the Gates. Not that this would stop the Chamber and the Valley, but she wanted every advantage they could get.
“Perhaps if we can divide our would be enemies, it would be better for everyone all around.” Better, of course, is a lose term. Better for the Chamber. Better for Straia and Weed, as the world breaks apart. Piece by piece, until the fractures are too large to fix. “Which of your rumors would be the best for that?”
straia
the raven queen of the chamber
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission
They very well could be each other’s downfall. He trusted her perhaps a hair too much—recognized her for the wild thing that she was, but let her near him regardless. Were she to ever split the knife into his belly, he would have no one but himself to blame. He knew that. Knew that she probably trusted him just a little too much too. It was a tenuous relationship between them; a dangerous game that they played. They trusted one another when they knew they were not entirely trustworthy. They pressed their throats against each other’s knives and waited for the knick of the metal against their flesh. Were she to press just a little too much, cut a little too deep, he would not be surprised. It would be what he deserved.
Still, he does not untangle himself from her just yet. Nipping at her neck because he could, tasting the salt and the power of her. No one was able to see her like this, and he relished the cloak of their privacy. He enjoyed the wildness of her mane and the sharpness of her smile, the way she melted around him like iron gone too hot. Not soft—never soft. He much preferred the pain of her bite to the softness of her kiss.
“There were a few,” he murmurs, and although he wants nothing more than to target the Gates, he does not dwell on them first. They were already breaking, he did not need much pressure there. They would need more than one broken kingdom to accomplish what they wanted. “I would turn the Tundra and Amazons against one another or I would have the Valley rain hellfire down on the Dale.” His smiles is a little wicked, “I think the latter.” He shrugs his elegant shoulders, “They suspected deception and where a little too measly-mouthed for my liking. I would very much like to see them pay for their foolishness.”
He stretches a little, grin wicked, “I can play the Valley member very convincingly.”
He, after all, had spent plenty of time doing just that.
There is a part of her that wonders what they could be if she did not serve the Chamber so loyally. What is she served only herself, as he served only himself? The Chamber gave them quite a bit of weight to throw around, yes, but what could they do without it’s tether?
The thought is a strange on to her. She would never betray the Chamber, never stop serving it. These things were simply not an option, never would be, and even the thought in her mind feels traitorous. But she would, one day, stop ruling it. And then her life would be terribly different, and beautifully freer.
That day, of course, was not today. Today was the day when they sent the world ablaze with the Chamber at the head of it all. At least, today was part of the process, one of the many sparks they would need to win. Particularly with the upstanding ladies of the Chamber choosing to defend the Gates, and with Magnus so annoyingly hell bent on rebuilding the Gates. Why is it everyone wanted to be such a goody-two-shoes?
It was beginning to drive her nuts. It also meant they needed to weaken their opponent, and strengthen their own army. Though she doesn’t step away, doesn’t stop the bites and the warmth and the pain that flows so easily and freely between them, her mind tosses his ideas around.
“They already hate the Valley, almost as much as they hate the Chamber. If the Valley attacks the Dale, it will give the rest of a Beqanna a reason to turn on us. I’m sure the Valley would agree, but it doesn’t weaken our enemy at all. It only strengthens them.” She imagines that she could just tell Gallows the idea, and the mare would make it happen. But what would it accomplish in the grand scheme of things?
“I’d rather set the Tundra against the Amazons. If we are lucky, the Tundra will help us. Or at the very least, the Tundra won’t attack us if they don’t like the Amazons. It seems unlikely that the Jungle ladies will be standing on our side in this fight.” And she wasn’t in the mood to lose. So she needed every advantage she could get.
straia
the raven queen of the chamber
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission
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