there are many paths to tread
She doesn’t offer her name - but nor does he ask for it. The way she looks at him, narrowing her eyes and barely concealing a frown, the way her body tenses as if she wants to run or charge, the ice in her tone; she doesn’t want to know him. He is nothing more than a stranger walking through the woods to her. And she is no more than the stranger trailing along after his shadow.
And yet she followed him. Perhaps it was her curiosity, he supposed; it seemed doubtful that there was an inner knight within her, a heroin who only wanted to do what was best for their court. Toulouse nearly scoffed at the notion. No, she had other reasons for chasing him into the forest, of that he was sure.
”I trust no one,” she tells him, and this time, Toulouse cannot help the laughter that spills from his lips like acid. It burns him from the inside out, curdling his heart. It’s raw and vicious, and he hopes she hates it. “To each their own,” he tells her when he catches his breath, and there’s a wicked glint to his eye. Toulouse did not trust many people himself - and it would be naive of her to assumed he was telling the truth any time he opened her mouth. Lies came naturally to him; he was half snake, after all.
The moon slides slowly behind a stray cloud, and as the night bathes them in darkness he steps forward. His eyes are still shining, brightly, vibrantly, reflecting the stray starlight like two beacons that seek to capture her within their spotlight. The wind whips his hair about him, a pale veil that frames his face.
As the moon comes out he stops, close enough to see the planes of her face limned in silver.
“You wonder why I’m alone, and yet what were you before you tagged along on my trail?” he questions, and his eyes sharpen. He doesn’t expect an answer. He doesn’t need one. She was alone, just as he was.
“I know the dangers,” he tells her softly, curtly, and his eyes are still laughing at her. What makes you think I care? they say, as they flash green and silver. The words are there on the tip of his tongue, barely restrained, begging to be released - but he doesn’t. Not yet. What makes you think I’m not the most dangerous thing out here?
Perhaps Toulouse is hunting the monster, or perhaps he’s simply hunting the secrets she speaks so casually of. Or perhaps Toulouse is a monster - not the Viride murderer, but some other breed - seeking his next victim beneath the full moon.
Whatever he is, is whatever he wants to be. The horned man knows exactly what that is, and he has no intention of telling her.
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