—
To the General, death is nothing but an ending.
The end of pain, the end of glory. The end of want and need. Sometimes, Martell dreams of it, and what it feels like is peace. And what peace feels like to a man such as him is nothing at all.
Maybe he is a fool, for the way he does not see death when he meets the dark pool of her eye, the sea below a storm. The blood bay sees the impetuous coldness of youth, the careless superiority of a teenage princess. Oh, he does not doubt she has killed. Oh, he does not question the sharpness of her wolf’s teeth.
But he does not fear her. She could pierce his heart here, amid weeping, whining instruments, and he would only laugh and, dying, sigh you should have been mine.
Cold seizes the room; it takes him a moment to realize it comes from her companion. The beast is changing, flickering, unstable - and he assumes the girl before him must be the same. He had hoped to snare her with thoughts of her mother, of the homeland she had gone to to free (and had left without seeing how long that freedom might last). But she is as frigid and feral as her wolf, and he can demand no respect here, when he is nothing but a stranger.
“A pity,” he says cooly, his only answer to both of her statements. The wolf snaps at his knees and he stamps a black hoof, a warning unheard amid the chatter of the room. But his teeth grind together as he watches them go from the room, those two silver beasts who must be taught to bow.
@Avesta
The end of pain, the end of glory. The end of want and need. Sometimes, Martell dreams of it, and what it feels like is peace. And what peace feels like to a man such as him is nothing at all.
Maybe he is a fool, for the way he does not see death when he meets the dark pool of her eye, the sea below a storm. The blood bay sees the impetuous coldness of youth, the careless superiority of a teenage princess. Oh, he does not doubt she has killed. Oh, he does not question the sharpness of her wolf’s teeth.
But he does not fear her. She could pierce his heart here, amid weeping, whining instruments, and he would only laugh and, dying, sigh you should have been mine.
Cold seizes the room; it takes him a moment to realize it comes from her companion. The beast is changing, flickering, unstable - and he assumes the girl before him must be the same. He had hoped to snare her with thoughts of her mother, of the homeland she had gone to to free (and had left without seeing how long that freedom might last). But she is as frigid and feral as her wolf, and he can demand no respect here, when he is nothing but a stranger.
“A pity,” he says cooly, his only answer to both of her statements. The wolf snaps at his knees and he stamps a black hoof, a warning unheard amid the chatter of the room. But his teeth grind together as he watches them go from the room, those two silver beasts who must be taught to bow.
@Avesta
