It's the last dance of the evening
Let the moon just shine
Take my hand, we'll commit treason and let the man of prinsloo fight
Let the moon just shine
Take my hand, we'll commit treason and let the man of prinsloo fight
H
e shifted hoof to hoof beneath his cloak, pulling it incrementally over one wing, then another. It would not settle. (He would not settle.) But he had little reason to fret. Shadows leaked from Caine's body like rain off a gorged storm cloud; warmth alluded him—summoned shadows were hungry things and fed on heat like kindling—and Seraphina's lark-bright gaze, though uncannily sharp, remained grasping in the perfect dark.And yet. What a dangerous game he played. He had watched her reaction carefully, caught the little snort as it slipped from her lips and out the window. The wind had stolen it from him before he could memorize the sound; but better that it had. What was he hoping for? Why had he come?
Why did he watch her so?
He returned her thanks with a distracted nod, until he remembered she could not see him and pressed his lips together, suddenly, uncharacteristically, grave. "We must all do what we can."
It was not until after the words had rolled off his tongue did Caine frown, and swallow a dark laugh. Verona uttered such noble things. If only she knows who I truly am.
(And that was it, wasn't it? His cloak slipped again; he sucked in a breath when he thought he felt warmth seeping like blood along his spine. A warning, a condemnation. The shadows—unsettled, malevolent—whispered: you are afraid. you pretend not to be and perhaps you have half-convinced yourself of it but shadows do not lie and we must speak for you whence you are blind. you are afraid that she will find out that you are not Verona that you are a liar and a betrayer and then she will hate you for it. [a pause, hushed and gloating] if she does not already.)
They were each drowning. One in fear, one in loneliness. And the stars and the shadows did nothing but watch, cruel and cold and silent. Waiting for something to happen.
She invited him in.
The window swung slowly open, rusty hinges squeaking to a stop halfway between shut and beckoning. Caine's head followed the motion of the swing with a delayed sense of what he could only call vertigo. Invite me in, carissima? He swallowed, and it seemed the loudest sound in the world.
"I cannot reveal myself to you yet," he began, hesitantly, as he made for the sill. "And you will likely see me as a mass of darkness." Drily, he thought, and this is when a maiden runs screaming 'devil.' But the once-queen was no such maiden. Not when something worse than devil lounged upon her throne.
He eyed the height between the ground and the wooden frame with some disparagement. But doors are out of fashion. Grimacing, Caine nudged the panes out of the way. Nothing whispers devotion when a suitor climbs through balconies—and when absent, windows—to win his lady's hand.
And through the gap he vaulted. He landed spryly enough, impressive footwork for the alcoholically impaired, but a wing had caught in the frame and pulling it away had toppled a nearby vase. It fell to the floor and shattered, smugly.
"Not yours, hopefully?" he muttered, turning towards Seraphina in glum guilt before yanking his head back when he realized how close he had landed to her. He retreated to the wall, and fixed his gaze on the patterned wallpaper. It was a nice print, peonies and lace, but risked dowdiness. Despite himself, he smiled. He knew this must be an inn, but to imagine the desert queen who ran an underground Resistance sleeping in such a room—
Grinning, Caine wandered to the tidy bed and sat upon it. There was no other alternative, and his head still spun from landing (and other sources). The candle in the corner guttered, choked by his shadows, and hastily he drew them in until they gathered tightly about him like a cocoon.
He leaned his hand against the bed frame, and stared into the flickering candle. "You must be curious about who I am. But I will not tell you." His voice softened, lost between a sigh and a yawn, and his eyes slit drowsily. "Instead, let us play a game. I will tell you a story, and after, you may guess once who you think I am."
When he had vaulted over the window, the shadows had grown silent. Perhaps Rudolph had slipped something in his drink—he wouldn't put it against the electric-eyed spy to try something tongue-in-cheek wicked—but when put forth in front of him: to leave, or to stay?
One of them he couldn't bear to do.
What was he hoping for? Why had he come? Why did he watch her so? He had no answers, and the not knowing was worse than the fear. Worse, even, of her hatred. Caine had long learned not to believe in things that had yet to come true; she did not hate him, at least not him as Verona, and maybe, just maybe—
She would not hate Caine either.
"And if you guess right, carissima..." he trailed off, the sheets rustling beneath him as he shifted towards her, silver to his dark. Electricity fizzled through the damp air as lightning forked like a serpent's tongue upon the earth.
And in that instant, in that sweep of sudden bright, the gleam of his eyes was just visible through the roiling black.
{ @Seraphina "speaks" notes: he's really not trying to be casual about this. subtlety: 0 }
