The magpie girl is quiet as she drinks in the whole of Warset. Silver and black and white. Beautiful as stardust splashed haphazardly into skin. Water on her sides, in her hair, dripping from dark, splashed wings looks as diamonds would upon her throat: breathtaking. But Dalmatia is not one to be moved by how another looks. Cicero, after all, looks as though his heart would bleed for his whole life. That is a lie.
He is not a bleeding heart but a coldblooded killer, a criminal. She knows better than to fall for petty tricks and pretty faces. Perhaps the magpie girl is too old to be fond just because of a smile, a soft word. Love is not something she knows any longer. Kindness is not a practice she’s been privy to in a long time.
No.
No.
The dark, the damp, the earth pressed her from coal to diamond: unbreakable.
It takes time for words to come again to the lips of the other. They are curled at the edge. Silent. Assessing just as she does. And Dalmatia knows that little grin, the calmness that steals over her not-quite-companion and lets her come closer still. All of this she knows, just as she recognizes she is a bomb waiting to detonate. There is a timer set on just how long she will stay, will live, will let herself be drawn into the foray of civility before returning to a hungering beast once more.
Holly eyes trace ebon lips as they speak of what they do not know.
There are many things that Dalmatia does not know.
She does not know the taste of starlight on her skin, she has forgotten the press of dawn into her wings. These little things life once offered are now fruitless, lost to her. These little things she does not say.
Instead, the quiet continues until it does not.
And they break it together as Warset reaches out her sharp tongue, her silken maw. ”The ocean stole my heart,” she offers to the star after what seems like an eternity. Perhaps, to Warset, the time of silence is only a fraction of forever to a star come to earth. ”I do not think I want it back,” she admits. It is something that the warrioress has not said to another. Such words have never dared leave her mouth, nor will they leave again.
Dalmatia reaches then. Her grey and muddied flesh presses softly, softer than it has been in a great while (not since she was a girl, not since...him), to the curve of Warset’s nose. There, she feels the hum of battle, of loss, of longing, all etched in the lines of her mouth. ”Would you want back what makes you weak?” She asks, unmoving, still like the eye of a hurricane.
Beware: I am fearless, and therefore, powerful.
@Warset | <3
