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She knows the moment he boards.
The shift in the atmosphere gives his presence away. Silence settles like a gentle snow fall, gradual at first--shouts of interrogation turn to ashes in their mouths, to the decay of whispers strained against the sigh of the wind and the creak of the ship as it trembles in the black waters. And then the silence is absolute in its entirety. The silence holds the anticipation of a last sigh before the flatline, the last beat of a heart before the shadow of death ensues...
That is how still his soldiers are (made of stone, one might say), clinging to what little breath remains in their lungs, too terrified to draw another in the presence of a nameless fear.
Nameless for now, anyhow.
She studies their expressions carefully (she can't yet see who is approaching), gleaning all the information available from their downcast gaze, the way they attempt to stand at attention and shrink in the shadows at the same time. Faces pale, drained of color. Eyes focused on irrelevant details (a partially exposed nail in a plank, a droplet of quivering sea water), anything to distract them from drawing the attention... of whom, I wonder.
She doesn't have to wonder long.
He is a ghost in the night. Gray like the dawn before a dismal funeral. A sheet of storm rain in the distance. It should be soothing, she thinks. Silver is such a listless, neutral color, devoid of any emotion or feeling. It is the color of silence and somberness and solitude. But as his eyes meet hers, his silver eyes--dead eyes--are anything but soft like the rain.
He seems to look through her--no, into her--and she briefly wonders if he may have the terrible gift to pry into her mind and have all of her desires and secrets laid barren and exposed before him. His dead eyes on her skin, her hair, her face...it is the unmistakable and uncomfortable sensation of nakedness...
But does this silver ghost with dead eyes know what happened to Actaeon after he lay his unwelcome gaze upon the wrathful Artemis bathing naked?
"These are not necessary." She clinks the chains on her ankles together for effect. "Release me and then we may talk business in a more sophisticated manner." Her stomach growls; her skin itches. How she longs to step on the solidness of earth and to never to set hoof on this wretched boat again. "Perhaps over dinner," she suggests idly, as if she is completely at liberty to tell a king what to do.
P O L Y X E N A
oh, I drain your life 'til there's
nothing left but your blood shot eyes
oh, I take my time 'til I show you how I feel inside
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@Raum
03-08-2019, 06:39 PM
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