V E L O R C A
His heart clenched as her eyes wandered the room, then stilled as she drew toward him. Every move she made was measured, her slim body wreathed by that soft ebony cloak. She was so achingly beautiful against the moonlit room, her auburn curls catching slivers of silver light as she lowered herself to the ground. She was grace and fire tucking her wings in tight, those faint glittering gold scars a subtle reveal of her strength.
“If I passed judgement on her now, I do not think it would be fair.”
He shared her bitter smile with a joyless one of his own, his supple lips barely curving. It was a strange feeling, to know without experience that when she smiled, it hid her hurts — to know that each body that had fallen underneath his spear would have added a weight to Cyrene's soul. Bastard.
“Solterra… is a hungry land, savagely beautiful. Nothing is ever permanent in a kingdom made of sand. They are resilient. They rebuild, time and time again.”
Now it was his turn to hold in a bitter laugh, blowing air out of his shaped nostrils in the semblance of sharp amusement.
"Resilience grows tiring."
He held little care for the Kingdom they stood within — in truth, he'd never been faithful to Solterra, only the Davke. The only family he had known. For so long he had yearned for a time he barely remembered, and had perhaps fallen into the fantasy that his life with the Davke had been... prosperous for him. In reality the Davke were as savage as the King and the memory they fought against, only savagery was their way of life... their kind of savagery wasn't likened to cruelty but necessity. The Desert was a harsh place to thrive, and somehow the Davke had done so... until they had been all but wiped out by greed and jealousy.
He watched through wary eyes as she pressed a bandage to his neck, his angled nostrils flaring ever so slightly as he breathed in her scent. She was so close... the memory of that bitterly cold night returned to him, the warmth of her soft lips pressed to his... her breath mingling so close with his own, tainted by drink. Velorca swallowed as desire surged through him, insistent and fierce. How he wanted to thrust himself against her, press his lips to hers and lose himself in her sweetness — to run fingers through her sable curls, to show her that she was a Goddess.
“Will you tell me?"
He felt the words hesitating on her tongue and set calculating eyes upon her own, unable to help noticing the way her lashes hid the flame of her golden eyes.
"About your people."
The gentle pressure she kept upon the bandage was distracting, but all thoughts were wiped from his mind as he slightly... ever so slightly.. dipped his head in acceptance. His razor-lined jaw tightened, the sharp lines of him almost appearing to grow sharper still as he turned his thoughts to the Davke, to Zolin... to the boy he'd been and the man he'd been forced to become. He took a shallow breath... and then his elegant voice filled the room, lower and rougher than it had been before.
"The Davke have belonged to the Desert for generations... before castles and battlements, before there was a King or a Queen. They.. lived off of the belief that what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger.. life for them was simple but strict, brutal. When the first outsiders came and claimed a part of the Desert for their own, there was conflict. They were seen as invaders... and so began the War between Davke and Solterran."
"Things escalated when Zolin," he spoke the name casually, though it was difficult not to bare his gleaming teeth, "ascended to the throne. Davke began disappearing.. some were culled, others..." Velorca trailed off, looking around the room as his heart bled. He had never spoken the words aloud — never truly told anyone what had happened to him. The only one that had any idea was Avdotya, his Queen — and that was because she had been there. She had seen Lorca dressed in gold, draped in gold and kohl, Zolin's favourite toy. Was his Queen even alive after the attack? He cleared his throat, words escaping faster than he'd intended, clean and crisp.
".. others were used as slaves and whores."
His gaze lingered upon the window, a weight settling upon his shoulders. He didn't want to explain which role he had served, though he likely wouldn't have to... not when his skin was like satin, his bones regal and elegant. If Cyrene was to slide her fingers upward... his eyes flicked back to her, feeling the presence of the many scars criss-crossing the ridge of his neck. There so that they would be hidden underneath his soft ebony and silver hair. Velorca used his telekinesis to gently push Cyrene's touch from his skin, leaning forward intently as he asked;
"What are you doing here, Cyrene? It's not... The War still rages. There is more blood to be spilled yet."
@Cyrene MA HART, MA SOUL
some princes don't become kings
