better to reign in hell
than serve in heaven
than serve in heaven
C
aine shudders as the heatless flames seep back into his eyes, one lick at a time. It is always draining, cutting the flow of his magic before it is allowed to unleash the full extent of its pent-up fury. Like slipping a muzzle over a starving dragon.
He feels both of their startled gazes fly to him, hovering somewhere between his glowing scars and the fire dripping like tears from his eyes. Not knowing which of the two promises a quicker danger. (When they should really be watching his dagger.)
Still, he is just a bit pleased that his theatrics — parlor tricks, really — warrant such raptured attention. He is almost regretful when he drags the curtains closed before the show can properly start.
“Just like my father,” O says, and Caine’s restored silver eyes slit doubtfully at her accompanying grin. It is almost too sweet, like black cherries in summer, and he is unexpectedly reminded of her tender age. No older than a child, really — and already she is fatherless. He knows that he ought to feel sorry for her, but he isn’t, and she doesn’t look like she wants his sorry anyways.
Sorry has never brought back the dead.
He mulls over a proper reply, keen to settle for no reply at all, when Elif’s voice pierces through the lull.
“And what are your illusions?” she asks. And like a cat torn between two equally distracting canaries in separate cages, Caine turns an eye thoughtfully towards the hawk-winged, jewel-eyed girl.
“Ah, but that is a trade secret,” he clucks, flashing her a smile. He lets Elif imagine for herself (for themselves — he does not forget to include O this time, and turns his smile into a tilted smirk to match the one she still wears like rouge) what trade he is referring to. Better they content themselves with their imaginations, however skewed, than knowing that the magic-less Elif has more in common with O than he ever will.
He is deprived from hearing their replies (both cutting, he expects) because the sullen shopkeeper chooses this exact moment to start caring for the welfare of his business.
Swallowing a sigh, Caine slides a silver coin across the table and manages to school his expression into something passable as apologetic. Unwise, he reminds himself, to make enemies of the one who sharpens your knife. “My apologies. I hope that is enough to make up for the business we have driven away.” It is more than enough, and the shopkeeper knows it. His purse also knows it, but alas.
Caine leaves the disgruntled man with a tilt of the head, and turns back to Elif and O.
“I know of another booth a little further in. The merchant keeps a far better stock.” He has visited it a handful of times, leaving always with new blades and far rarer wares to add to his arsenal. Wares he is only shown because he suspects that the young shopkeeper has taken a fancy to him.
He smiles when Apolonia leans forward, just a little, to slip her cherry-sweet threat down his throat. He nods once obligingly, though the lingering corvid smile promises of anything but.
“Care to follow?” The question dangles before them like a blood-soaked rose.
@Elif @Apolonia | "speaks" | notes: the shopping trip must go on
