It does not follow her out of hunger or particular interest. In fact, it does not know that it follows her until it sees her through the blue-violet shades of night and the indigo shadow she draws across the ground as the moon frames her silhouette. It does not know that her heart winds against itself with the concern that he may mistake her motives – and it does not know that it could ever think of such a thing. Though it has access to the fires that once marred the Night Markets and the crimes against Isra, it had never delved into those closed files in the mind of the Erasmus-That-Was. It did not know the concept of betrayal or treason, and its understanding of trespassing was limited. He himself often wound in the private yards of the Denoctian citizens, marveling at what may be – their gardens, their statues, or simply the way the moon rested in the grass, or the way it was framed in the sky aloft its countless constellations.
Tonight was no different. They might as well have both been traitors to the ground the walked on, for it meant little to him than dirt and grass and moonlight bath, all Denocte and never his or theirs or hers, but earth.
So when he met her, their forms washed in the silver flow of moonlight, he did not mind if she did not belong to the Night Court or worship Caligo, and he did not assume that she was any creature of violence. Not because she did not appear violent – it knows better, like of beautiful flowers that devour their admirers – but because she did not bare her teeth or snarl when she saw him. She did not unfold like a carnivorous flower, all sharp edges and weariness, and blood-red ripe beauty that begged a taste of death. But neither does he.
Instead, he meets her as commonly as strangers may – though strangers do not often greet each other with hunger in their bellies that scrapes up their throats and threaten, o threaten, a howl from their lips. It comes tumbling down, down, a learned practice. A well learned one, when he had been run from the shores after taking a sizable bite of a sailor's hand upon his arrival, that his hunger must be patient. That he must be more beauty than hunger, if he wishes to achieve anything better than withering at the roots. So he swallows it, and he tells it, wait, wait, and it abides because – because –
Because predators know when they see something like her, that something is wrong. He sees her flesh sucked tight against her ribs, sees that when the moon glistens over them that they do not reveal the healthy luster of a plentiful coat. He sees that she, herself, looks hungry, looks depraved, diseased, and there is an inkling of wonder that death may manifest itself with warmth still. But he does not look to her with disgust, or much of anything beside the warranted compliance with societal-mandated warmth. His grin does not falter, his expression does not twitch with apathy. If anything, there is a small faint twinkling of child-like wonder when he looks at her, but it is fleeting and soft. Between these flickers, something else lurks, but there is no name for it.
There are small, awful moments he finds in which it cannot find the proper words. It struggles with greetings, with small-talk, and finds that it loathes most of what sits in the bank for using. Weather talk was too dull, hellos too complicated by gestures and tones, and all else was strung in chaos like webs of philosophical dreamings. Improvisation was best, but the aether is infantile to Erasmus's natural charisma, so it lacks the entire charm when it cracks: "leaving?" because it doesn't know that in its level tone it can be just as accusing as it is harmless, like some monotone threat that lingers in the air. It is unclear if words are worst than awkward silences at times. But he does not chase her, then, and maybe this alone shows the lack of ill nature in the way his voice curls around the word. He looks to the structure as she had looked before, his eyes passing over the razor-thin lines between the mortared stones, cutting themselves on the cracks that slip between faded eclipses of black crescent moons. He sighed softly, and the hunger lounges at the pit of his belly, burning off like dying embers. "is there something here you couldn't find?" he asks absently, without turning. He cannot find it either.
Tonight was no different. They might as well have both been traitors to the ground the walked on, for it meant little to him than dirt and grass and moonlight bath, all Denocte and never his or theirs or hers, but earth.
So when he met her, their forms washed in the silver flow of moonlight, he did not mind if she did not belong to the Night Court or worship Caligo, and he did not assume that she was any creature of violence. Not because she did not appear violent – it knows better, like of beautiful flowers that devour their admirers – but because she did not bare her teeth or snarl when she saw him. She did not unfold like a carnivorous flower, all sharp edges and weariness, and blood-red ripe beauty that begged a taste of death. But neither does he.
Instead, he meets her as commonly as strangers may – though strangers do not often greet each other with hunger in their bellies that scrapes up their throats and threaten, o threaten, a howl from their lips. It comes tumbling down, down, a learned practice. A well learned one, when he had been run from the shores after taking a sizable bite of a sailor's hand upon his arrival, that his hunger must be patient. That he must be more beauty than hunger, if he wishes to achieve anything better than withering at the roots. So he swallows it, and he tells it, wait, wait, and it abides because – because –
Because predators know when they see something like her, that something is wrong. He sees her flesh sucked tight against her ribs, sees that when the moon glistens over them that they do not reveal the healthy luster of a plentiful coat. He sees that she, herself, looks hungry, looks depraved, diseased, and there is an inkling of wonder that death may manifest itself with warmth still. But he does not look to her with disgust, or much of anything beside the warranted compliance with societal-mandated warmth. His grin does not falter, his expression does not twitch with apathy. If anything, there is a small faint twinkling of child-like wonder when he looks at her, but it is fleeting and soft. Between these flickers, something else lurks, but there is no name for it.
There are small, awful moments he finds in which it cannot find the proper words. It struggles with greetings, with small-talk, and finds that it loathes most of what sits in the bank for using. Weather talk was too dull, hellos too complicated by gestures and tones, and all else was strung in chaos like webs of philosophical dreamings. Improvisation was best, but the aether is infantile to Erasmus's natural charisma, so it lacks the entire charm when it cracks: "leaving?" because it doesn't know that in its level tone it can be just as accusing as it is harmless, like some monotone threat that lingers in the air. It is unclear if words are worst than awkward silences at times. But he does not chase her, then, and maybe this alone shows the lack of ill nature in the way his voice curls around the word. He looks to the structure as she had looked before, his eyes passing over the razor-thin lines between the mortared stones, cutting themselves on the cracks that slip between faded eclipses of black crescent moons. He sighed softly, and the hunger lounges at the pit of his belly, burning off like dying embers. "is there something here you couldn't find?" he asks absently, without turning. He cannot find it either.
@Luvena
