from the mind of Chaos’s lonely daughter
and the sun fell heavy and thick
to warm the blood of a world"
The king is mad.
It is the first thought she thinks when the sovereign starts to burn and the dirt starts to gravitate towards him like small pieces of stardust trying to come home. The brightness of him highlights the brightness of her. She can see the reflection of her regalia in his smoldering and the kaleidoscope of her gold painting his skin in colors flashing like comets. Amaunet smiles with teeth and something darker than that. It's a smile of a girl looking at the sun after a year of darkness.
Her smile is one of chaos looking at a young flame and saying, come, come, come home.
Amaunet's own glow, the fury of her magic, welcomes in all his brightness, all his gravity tugging her closer, closer, closer like another bit of the desert begging entrance into the cracks of his form. Above it, even when she starts to glow (a soft star to his devouring sun), Amaunet does not change that slow blink of her eyes. She can feel the heat of his light, the sting of it, pressing against the blackness like a kiss. Below her own violence, her own itch, she cannot help but to think that it would be an adventure to let him burn her, to devour her in sunlight and firelight until there was nothing but ash left.
But she would burn him too, she knows, in the consuming. Davke are not things to be plucked apart like flags in a war; but kings might be. Even now her wings have not settled despite the lazy blink of her eyes, rather they rustle like spring leaves in a storm. They sing like a hawk's wings do when plummeting through the sky towards a snake in the tall-grass.
And it is not until he settles his magic, like a beast-master tugging at a rope around a lion's neck, that Amaunet lets her wings slide back to her sides. She almost misses the brush of his fury on the tips of them. Almost.
Once he quiets his brightness and swallowed it up to become more silver, she closes the distance between them. There is no part of her made for running from fires, and kings, and stallions who look at her like a thing to be charred. Always she runs towards: to danger, to fury, to violence, and molten kings. She brushes her nose to his, a greeting older than the stone at their feet. Like they are wild things instead of civilized things.
If only for tonight.
“You did not know you should have been looking for me.” Amaunet's voice is nothing more than a whisper of the sand that was reaching for him only moment ago begging to be let in. There is no sea, no fury, no sunlight in her voice. Nor is there shyness when her look suggests hurt at the idea that he does not know who she is (it's disappointment).
He clearly has not been walking the right paths through his court. The king is only walking the tame part of his city, only the civilized parts.
Until now--
Until the brush of her lips against the place where a crown should rest across his brow.
@Orestes
