LYSANDER
“I find queens to be far too solemn,” he says, and watches her tip back her head to the laden white sky. “All serious, so heavy with responsibility.” He is near enough to see her close her eyes, see a snowflake catch in her honey-gold lashes. Close enough the mist of their breath mingles when her gaze finds his and she steps nearer. She has flecks of amber in her eyes and he wonders if she always has.
Her muzzle brushes his and he lips at the satin of her nose before he speaks. She smells nothing at all like the Winter Court, nothing at all like the Rift.
And then the realization dawns, a sun rising. He settles back, satisfied.
At least until his words seem to shake her, rock her like a boat on the crest of a wave. He lets her turn around, lets her speak over her shoulder and leave a few foot-prints in the snow before he laughs and sets after her.
Perhaps he should not feel so glad she’d said nothing of a lover of her own, no king or courtesan to help carry the weight of her new crown.
“Ah, Florentine,” he says, and laughs again at her little insult, giving a shake of the tatty antlers in question. A few drops of blood stain the thin dusting of snow. “I only mean that I am no better match than I was then, and certainly a poor choice compared to a kingdom.” And then he’s silent, thoughtful, green eyes flashing darker. “I am not the one who takes,” he says, and it is other, older gods he thinks of then. “Anyhow, you told me you must be in love to get married, and that love can break your heart. Do not tell me you’ve grown less wise, in so short a time.”
He ought to leave it there, but he cannot resist the blow to his ego, however joking or framed by hurt.
“Am I so different? I was not aware I looked so dreadfully common.” His smile turns impish, and then, abruptly, it vanishes. “And I call you anthousai still. But fewer things have happened for me than for you, I think. You were not so…” he trails off, and his dark-forest eyes skirt her golden curves, her proud wings with their long golden pinions, her eyes with their power to catch and to keep. “Tall.”
For a long moment after this he’s quiet, watching the snow fall around them and imagining it starlight instead. He stretches his head back, bearing his throat to scratch a place just above his haunch with a blood-striped tine. Maybe he is a gruesome sight – a thought that brings him to other bloody things.
Things he should tell her. You’re lucky you got out, he wants to say; it rises on his tongue and nearly slips out, bitter-sweet like unripe fruit.
But Lysander is selfish, and greedy for her time, for her smile. Even for the hurt that flashed meteor-brief in her eyes and lived lightly as a bruise in her voice. He doesn’t even feel too guilty for withholding information that might make her worry, might make her leave. Things might be interesting, in this world; even if not, they are at least new.
It’s only his nature, after all.
Instead he draws again beside her, twisting a black-edged ear. “What of you, Florentine? Did you win your throne through battle? No – it must have been charm. Tell me of your people, who you abandon for adventure.”
@Florentine
Her muzzle brushes his and he lips at the satin of her nose before he speaks. She smells nothing at all like the Winter Court, nothing at all like the Rift.
And then the realization dawns, a sun rising. He settles back, satisfied.
At least until his words seem to shake her, rock her like a boat on the crest of a wave. He lets her turn around, lets her speak over her shoulder and leave a few foot-prints in the snow before he laughs and sets after her.
Perhaps he should not feel so glad she’d said nothing of a lover of her own, no king or courtesan to help carry the weight of her new crown.
“Ah, Florentine,” he says, and laughs again at her little insult, giving a shake of the tatty antlers in question. A few drops of blood stain the thin dusting of snow. “I only mean that I am no better match than I was then, and certainly a poor choice compared to a kingdom.” And then he’s silent, thoughtful, green eyes flashing darker. “I am not the one who takes,” he says, and it is other, older gods he thinks of then. “Anyhow, you told me you must be in love to get married, and that love can break your heart. Do not tell me you’ve grown less wise, in so short a time.”
He ought to leave it there, but he cannot resist the blow to his ego, however joking or framed by hurt.
“Am I so different? I was not aware I looked so dreadfully common.” His smile turns impish, and then, abruptly, it vanishes. “And I call you anthousai still. But fewer things have happened for me than for you, I think. You were not so…” he trails off, and his dark-forest eyes skirt her golden curves, her proud wings with their long golden pinions, her eyes with their power to catch and to keep. “Tall.”
For a long moment after this he’s quiet, watching the snow fall around them and imagining it starlight instead. He stretches his head back, bearing his throat to scratch a place just above his haunch with a blood-striped tine. Maybe he is a gruesome sight – a thought that brings him to other bloody things.
Things he should tell her. You’re lucky you got out, he wants to say; it rises on his tongue and nearly slips out, bitter-sweet like unripe fruit.
But Lysander is selfish, and greedy for her time, for her smile. Even for the hurt that flashed meteor-brief in her eyes and lived lightly as a bruise in her voice. He doesn’t even feel too guilty for withholding information that might make her worry, might make her leave. Things might be interesting, in this world; even if not, they are at least new.
It’s only his nature, after all.
Instead he draws again beside her, twisting a black-edged ear. “What of you, Florentine? Did you win your throne through battle? No – it must have been charm. Tell me of your people, who you abandon for adventure.”
@
Oh, it’s a bad, bad ritual
Oh, but it calms me down
