—
If she chose to pierce herself on the gleaming tip of his bone-white horn, he would let her.
Martell does not lust for blood. He is not a beast, slavering for the taste of copper wet on his tongue, but a man, with a man’s reason and ruthlessness. But surely there must be something cruel in him, something black that only grows blacker still at every soul he’s seen cut down. A congregation’s worth of men have met god at the point of his sword. He thinks no differently of it than if they were pigs, and he a butcher.
If she wants to bleed herself out on a stranger, who is he to stop her?
Her smile is sharper still than his horn. He sees the disappointment in it, a queen’s dismay, and he feels a general’s pique. But he is better at her than hiding it, for he has been a kind of servant all his life, and when she says My mistake his eyes betray nothing more than a nest of ferns in an evening wood.
“Far from strange, my lady. I have just seen what happens to such a culture.” His mouth slips where his eyes did not; his smile is savage, only for a moment, like a reflection shivering in a disturbed pool. The viciousness could belong to either of them, Martell or the general; they both have the right to anger, and know well the taste of blood.
The music winds like a serpent around them when she lifts her wings, and he does not give an inch as first their shadows then their touch alight upon his face. How easily his horn slides through; the touch against his cheek reminds him of the braids of a whip against the skin, the whisper before they become a weapon.
When she lowers her wings and lifts instead her voice, he is already staring ahead, so that their gazes meet as soon as her feathers fall away from his eyes. Martell does not answer her, but his eyes say that they are already beyond perhaps.
Oh, he can feel the heat of her skin, like midnight sand that still holds the warmth of noon; and her challenge, in word and laughter, raises a static-like shiver all along his carotid. And still he does not give her what she wants - no horn dimpling her skin, no cold touch against the burn of hers. Only a flash of ivory, when he clicks his teeth.
“You are not fat, as you call your kin, but I think that you are greedy. What could there be for you here, when already you have access to music, to drink, to any men - or women?” If her laughter is a kiss, if her voice is a leopard’s rasping purr, then his is a shackle of velvet and iron, a cuff around her wrist. “You like their eyes on you, watching as though you are a wolf among the sheep. But they are a dull audience, aren’t they?”
Now, at last, he bends his head. That slender, smooth horn (his weapon, his treasure, more than she or any other will know) descends like a sword until its point rests at the joining of her wing and neck. He taps, once, a conductor cuing something new. And then he lifts his chin and says, “What is it you’d rather be doing, tigress? Why are you here at all?”
@Amaunet
Martell does not lust for blood. He is not a beast, slavering for the taste of copper wet on his tongue, but a man, with a man’s reason and ruthlessness. But surely there must be something cruel in him, something black that only grows blacker still at every soul he’s seen cut down. A congregation’s worth of men have met god at the point of his sword. He thinks no differently of it than if they were pigs, and he a butcher.
If she wants to bleed herself out on a stranger, who is he to stop her?
Her smile is sharper still than his horn. He sees the disappointment in it, a queen’s dismay, and he feels a general’s pique. But he is better at her than hiding it, for he has been a kind of servant all his life, and when she says My mistake his eyes betray nothing more than a nest of ferns in an evening wood.
“Far from strange, my lady. I have just seen what happens to such a culture.” His mouth slips where his eyes did not; his smile is savage, only for a moment, like a reflection shivering in a disturbed pool. The viciousness could belong to either of them, Martell or the general; they both have the right to anger, and know well the taste of blood.
The music winds like a serpent around them when she lifts her wings, and he does not give an inch as first their shadows then their touch alight upon his face. How easily his horn slides through; the touch against his cheek reminds him of the braids of a whip against the skin, the whisper before they become a weapon.
When she lowers her wings and lifts instead her voice, he is already staring ahead, so that their gazes meet as soon as her feathers fall away from his eyes. Martell does not answer her, but his eyes say that they are already beyond perhaps.
Oh, he can feel the heat of her skin, like midnight sand that still holds the warmth of noon; and her challenge, in word and laughter, raises a static-like shiver all along his carotid. And still he does not give her what she wants - no horn dimpling her skin, no cold touch against the burn of hers. Only a flash of ivory, when he clicks his teeth.
“You are not fat, as you call your kin, but I think that you are greedy. What could there be for you here, when already you have access to music, to drink, to any men - or women?” If her laughter is a kiss, if her voice is a leopard’s rasping purr, then his is a shackle of velvet and iron, a cuff around her wrist. “You like their eyes on you, watching as though you are a wolf among the sheep. But they are a dull audience, aren’t they?”
Now, at last, he bends his head. That slender, smooth horn (his weapon, his treasure, more than she or any other will know) descends like a sword until its point rests at the joining of her wing and neck. He taps, once, a conductor cuing something new. And then he lifts his chin and says, “What is it you’d rather be doing, tigress? Why are you here at all?”
@Amaunet
