Anandi’s tongue presses against the back of her teeth, where it tastes of salt and blood. The scent of Ipomoea is distinct in the air, so warm, thick, fleshy against the one-note backdrop of brine. She breathes in deeply, swirls the scent around in her mouth like a precious delicacy.
Kings and queens; flesh and blood and bone. All of them, all of it, all at once temporary and permanent as the wind.
And where, you might ask, does that leave her?
Above it all, of course. Pretty little monster, filled with shame and self righteousness. Wanting-- yearning for-- forgiveness but not enough to ask for it; when pride swells as it has in her, it leaves no room for apologies and no flexibility to turn the head and look back. Forget burning bridges, it isn’t worth the effort. You just need to go fast enough, far enough, long enough, and the past will never catch up to you.
“I would say setting a memory to rest is sometimes worth a scrap of paper.”
The sound of his voice is richer than she expected. It hints at deep roots. He is brave, and she admires him for the way he smiles even as his little wings flutter uselessly-- the barest of motions, but it does not escape her keen gaze.
(All predators know, without needing to be taught, what fear looks like. What weakness looks like. Not that she would ever touch him, at least not in that way. It wouldn’t be very diplomatic to indulge in king.)
He is strong, despite all appearances of softness, and she admires him for that too. But Anandi was always finding reasons to hold others in high esteem, even as she looked down on them. “You are as wise and kind as the stories make you out to be.” And she was gracious and flattering.
“Do you have any memories that need laying to rest Anandi, Emissary of Dusk?”
Her eyes laugh. “Don’t we all?” The question is evaded with a sweet smile. Sovereign or not, he could not expect her to confide in a near stranger, especially if they were not standing (or, even better, swimming) face to face as equals. He would have to try a little harder, if familiarity was what he sought.
The emissary changes the subject blithely- “Why are you so sad, king?” The sharp green of her eyes seems to soften to olive grey. I can help you, those beguiling eyes say. Let me help you.
A N A N D I
"Please,” she said, “you’re so beautiful. You may eat me if you like.
I’d sooner be eaten by you than fed by anyone else."
Kings and queens; flesh and blood and bone. All of them, all of it, all at once temporary and permanent as the wind.
And where, you might ask, does that leave her?
Above it all, of course. Pretty little monster, filled with shame and self righteousness. Wanting-- yearning for-- forgiveness but not enough to ask for it; when pride swells as it has in her, it leaves no room for apologies and no flexibility to turn the head and look back. Forget burning bridges, it isn’t worth the effort. You just need to go fast enough, far enough, long enough, and the past will never catch up to you.
“I would say setting a memory to rest is sometimes worth a scrap of paper.”
The sound of his voice is richer than she expected. It hints at deep roots. He is brave, and she admires him for the way he smiles even as his little wings flutter uselessly-- the barest of motions, but it does not escape her keen gaze.
(All predators know, without needing to be taught, what fear looks like. What weakness looks like. Not that she would ever touch him, at least not in that way. It wouldn’t be very diplomatic to indulge in king.)
He is strong, despite all appearances of softness, and she admires him for that too. But Anandi was always finding reasons to hold others in high esteem, even as she looked down on them. “You are as wise and kind as the stories make you out to be.” And she was gracious and flattering.
“Do you have any memories that need laying to rest Anandi, Emissary of Dusk?”
Her eyes laugh. “Don’t we all?” The question is evaded with a sweet smile. Sovereign or not, he could not expect her to confide in a near stranger, especially if they were not standing (or, even better, swimming) face to face as equals. He would have to try a little harder, if familiarity was what he sought.
The emissary changes the subject blithely- “Why are you so sad, king?” The sharp green of her eyes seems to soften to olive grey. I can help you, those beguiling eyes say. Let me help you.
"Please,” she said, “you’re so beautiful. You may eat me if you like.
I’d sooner be eaten by you than fed by anyone else."
@Ipomoea <3
some say the loving and the devouring are all the same thing
☾
