the blood on my teeth
begins to taste like a poem
begins to taste like a poem
H
e smiles sweetly at her, but his teeth are bone white and sharp. “No matter,” he turns a rock over with one hoof, dust rising into the air like smoke. “They leave quite the impression, whether they rule for one year or one hundred.”
Raum was already leaving his mark on Solterra. And on Denocte, and across the ribs of all those starving children on the city streets. Toulouse knew he wouldn’t last, just like he knew he would not soon be forgotten. And that, to him, was about as close to immortality as any one man could get.
He loves seeing the effect his words have on her, the way her voice turns to venom and her ears flatten to outline her skull. She looks appropriately fierce when she takes that slow, dangerous step towards him - and Toulouse can’t help but wonder if this was how she looked in Zolin’s bedchambers, right before she slit the boy king’s throat. And if it was, he decided then and there that there were worse ways to die.
But of course, Toulouse would not be dying today.
“A shame,” he echoes, his eyes dancing with unspoken glee. “Is that regret I hear? Remorse? I did not know the desert viper was capable of such.”
This time, it’s his turn to step closer. Toulouse’s voice drops to a whisper, one that would have been inaudible had they not been so close.
“Isn’t it funny how all the rulers make the same mistake every time?” he asks her, and at last he drops the false sweetness from his tone. In its place is something feral, something loving - something that delights in the thought of anarchy, of a boy king being slaughtered by the object of his own fascination.
“Zolin, Maxence, Seraphina, Raum - really, you’d think at least one of them would learn from their predecessors.”
He bares his horns, the golden rings clinking against one another. And then -
“-But I must say. Solterra is far more interesting when they don’t.”
@avdotya | "speaks" | notes: why is he enjoying this so much
