REICHENBACH ROMMEL
“Who is Isorath to you?”
Her question is a challenge, a quick reflection of his own and it startled him — he'd not thought so far as to define whatever it was he felt when Isorath was around, or allowed himself to consider giving it a name. Reichenbach's brow furrowed, a deep weariness lingering behind the flame licking his bones, hiding within every flickering shadow. He wasn't ready for the white hot nails digging into his chest and belly, or the fear gripping and brittling his anger at the sound of her voice so raw and chafed;
“I feel like a fool, Reich. The day I was given the crown, Isorath invited me to meet with him. He told me things, a small taste of the many secrets he has learned during his time spent in the Denocte. He asked me of you, of us. That was not so long ago, Reich.”
The Night King listened with too-bright eyes, dismay flickering across his features as Florentine looked away from him to the Citadel. He flicked his own argent eyes there before returning them to her face, taking the opportunity to memorise the lines of the flower-girls delicate face while she wasn't looking. Gods be damned, she was beautiful. A wild thing, a lost thing. So fragile but with strength limning her core, her long limbs. When her gaze returned he matched it, a hurricane ravaging behind his eyes.
“Did you have feelings for each other, even then?”
The hurricane faltered for a moment, then restarted. She was asking him questions even he did not know the answer to — he, who acted without thinking, who loved without daring to think of the consequence. He no further knew the insides of his heart than he knew that Florentine could cut windows through worlds. He was still that orphan boy, cursed with a mess of emotions he'd never untangle.
Her trembling had Reichenbach hurting, his very essence telling him to warm her, to comfort and protect the gentleness before him — but how could he step closer when it would only make things worse, hurt more?
"Answer me this, and then I will tell you of Lysander: Do you love Isorath and does he love you?”
"I don't know,"
He finally snapped, teeth flashing in the brittle winter air. He'd lived alongside the kirin for months before feeling the kindling between them, had met him even before he arrived to Court — it had only been recently that he'd replaced her delicately boned face for Isorath's within his waking dreams. Always keeping an eye out for a slip of porcelain and gold, finding himself strangely disappointed if a day was spent without seeing the man. He hadn't spent enough time figuring out what it meant to answer her with conviction.
"Perhaps if Dusk's Queen had deigned to visit sooner, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
It was a low blow, and he knew it, and hated himself for knowing it but speaking it anyway. He still harboured a tender bruise that Florentine had not told him herself, or visited for such a long time — a tender bruise he used as a shield, a weapon against the questions he did not want to think about or answer. Warmth rolled off of his body as his blood frenzied, hot and angry and frightened.
He took a step closer, shadows writhing underneath his ebony curls as he growled;
"Who is he?"
@Florentine oomph
Her question is a challenge, a quick reflection of his own and it startled him — he'd not thought so far as to define whatever it was he felt when Isorath was around, or allowed himself to consider giving it a name. Reichenbach's brow furrowed, a deep weariness lingering behind the flame licking his bones, hiding within every flickering shadow. He wasn't ready for the white hot nails digging into his chest and belly, or the fear gripping and brittling his anger at the sound of her voice so raw and chafed;
“I feel like a fool, Reich. The day I was given the crown, Isorath invited me to meet with him. He told me things, a small taste of the many secrets he has learned during his time spent in the Denocte. He asked me of you, of us. That was not so long ago, Reich.”
The Night King listened with too-bright eyes, dismay flickering across his features as Florentine looked away from him to the Citadel. He flicked his own argent eyes there before returning them to her face, taking the opportunity to memorise the lines of the flower-girls delicate face while she wasn't looking. Gods be damned, she was beautiful. A wild thing, a lost thing. So fragile but with strength limning her core, her long limbs. When her gaze returned he matched it, a hurricane ravaging behind his eyes.
“Did you have feelings for each other, even then?”
The hurricane faltered for a moment, then restarted. She was asking him questions even he did not know the answer to — he, who acted without thinking, who loved without daring to think of the consequence. He no further knew the insides of his heart than he knew that Florentine could cut windows through worlds. He was still that orphan boy, cursed with a mess of emotions he'd never untangle.
Her trembling had Reichenbach hurting, his very essence telling him to warm her, to comfort and protect the gentleness before him — but how could he step closer when it would only make things worse, hurt more?
"Answer me this, and then I will tell you of Lysander: Do you love Isorath and does he love you?”
"I don't know,"
He finally snapped, teeth flashing in the brittle winter air. He'd lived alongside the kirin for months before feeling the kindling between them, had met him even before he arrived to Court — it had only been recently that he'd replaced her delicately boned face for Isorath's within his waking dreams. Always keeping an eye out for a slip of porcelain and gold, finding himself strangely disappointed if a day was spent without seeing the man. He hadn't spent enough time figuring out what it meant to answer her with conviction.
"Perhaps if Dusk's Queen had deigned to visit sooner, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
It was a low blow, and he knew it, and hated himself for knowing it but speaking it anyway. He still harboured a tender bruise that Florentine had not told him herself, or visited for such a long time — a tender bruise he used as a shield, a weapon against the questions he did not want to think about or answer. Warmth rolled off of his body as his blood frenzied, hot and angry and frightened.
He took a step closer, shadows writhing underneath his ebony curls as he growled;
"Who is he?"
@
