[P] steep hills of vicodin tears,

[Raum]

 


He looks to her too many angles and fatigued eyes, for he cannot look away. Her hair tries to hide her; a veil of flames concealing and dancing, distracting him with beauty.  A tendril, pulled by the wind, reaches for him and it is fire along his skin. She will always be the inferno that lights his silver sea. Rhoswen takes his water, with its dangers, and makes him worse. She turns him to gasoline – always the fuel to her fire. Raum will make her burn hotter than the sun.
 
The past exists in the bonds that stretch like gossamer dreams between them. Memories of laughter and sunlight, darkness and intimacy twined their souls. Their bodies move together as if they had never been apart. They are one this night boy and his day girl for Raum is no longer whole without her and the revelation is both a poison and a cure within his heart.
 
Rhoswen knows of her king’s death – of course she did. It is why he waited for her, standing sentinel beside the grey, court walls, until she appeared like an avenging angel adorned in steel and wicked wildness. There is no empathy in her eyes, no loss for her king, and he thinks he might love her a little more just then. Oh this girl of passion and ferocity, it would not be a blade that would kill him, no adversary able enough to best him. No, it would be Rhoswen, when his heart least expected it.
 
No doubt Denocte knows too, courtesy of yourself. Were he another man, he might have smiled. But the fierce glint within the electric blue of his eyes betrays his pleasure. “Of course they do.” He purrs and growls as he steps closer to her, their sides brushing, hot against cold, a storm colliding with the sea. “The invasion is planned for a few days time.” Again he might have smiled, but the eyes he sets upon her promise to drown her in their mirth. Their smiles, their laughter was a rare thing, lost to daffodil dawns and hand-held nights. This is as close a the Crow dares to let them get.
 
He watches her body stiffen with his admission: I missed you. He has spoken them before – a millennia ago when a day might have passed before he saw her. He was too keen then, his boyish heart so full of her flames. But Rhoswen has since burned him and his heart bears the scars of her. Does she know how many nights he lay awake wondering how to rid her from his life? Oh peace, he prays – but it never comes.
 
She looks up to stars to the moon, anywhere but him. And then, It seems I have a habit of leaving you.
 
The Crow’s emotions are a tidal wave and he would laugh, were he not so furious. A lifetime of tempering his emotions down and this girl, this creature with her flames and her smoke, exposes every emotion he ever possessed with just a look, with a few well-chosen words.  A shudder, a sigh, a closing of too wild eyes until they open with blue waters so still, so dead. “You do.”
 
And then, “Don’t leave me again.” In those words is not a plea, but a vow that rings like the unsheathing of his knives. “Because if you do, I won’t be here when you return.” With those words he presses a knife to the first of their gossamer bonds.

@Rhoswen - sorry it's been agess