i'd rather be spitting blood,
For the first time in his life, Reichenbach wished the night would end.
Either that, or swallow him completely and be done with it. Remove the last Rommel from the earth and all stains of his father and mother with it. Alas, he was here representing a Court and... truth be told he wasn't ready to go back to Denocte, not with so many words running through his head, his skin near to bursting with the torrent inside. He'd found his own space near a bonfire, near enough to other groups that he would not be conspicuous, but not close enough to engage in conversation — indeed any that ventured too close were warned away with snaking shadows and deadly eyes. He wasn't entirely sure if staying was to punish himself or save himself — the longer he stayed the deeper his mind delved into too-real flaws, but to leave would be to accept the events of the Festival, make them real.
A murmuring thickened the air around him, the whisper of a hurricane brought home. He could see others looking upward, feel the excitement thrumming from woman and man alike as something caught their attention — someone beautiful no doubt, blessing the party with their presence. It's more than that, said the voice of reason, but Reichenbach turned his back on it, not interested in lightening the darkness of his own troubles. Was it over? Did tonight mean that Florentine no longer... no longer loved him? No longer wanted to be with him? He'd said some terrible things in the heat of the moment.
Curses and black words filled his head but stayed behind his lips, a little of the vibrancy he carried winking out quietly. That silence that was not silence shifted closer, and he knew who would speak before the sound of her voice coiled around his gold ringed ear. Aislinn. The bleakness within him turns, momentarily, to hope. Aislinn Stormsinger, a woman made of storms — perhaps the only woman aside from Rhoswen that truly knew what chaos lay beneath his dark skin.
But he had damned her, too. Not so long ago in a fragile time.
Was it to be two heartbreaks tonight, then?
He turned, shadows hovering uncertainly about him, as if unsure what they made of the woman who bled Calligo into the sky. The bonfire scattered light over his mahogany skin, casting him half in shadow and in flickering orange light. He simultaneously wanted to embrace her and turn away from her, knowing too well that she was to be his discipline tonight, that she would not waste time on paltry words of comfort.
"You're home.."
He began, unable to hide the relief and remedy that she had unknowingly brought with her. Too soon to say the dreaded words, to begin the dreaded conversation that lingered crookedly over his every word and movement.
"How was...?"
The Night King did not want to say funeral, not when he felt the presence of his own not so far away. There was so much to tell her — the appearance of his shadows and the sense of deeper magic, the status of inter-court relations and the secrets gathered, Florentine... Isorath.... Lysander. Rage echoed within him, strong and true, glinting in the corners of his long lashed eyes. Reich turned those eyes to his Champion, offering a strained smile.
"I'm glad you're back, Aislinn."
@Aislinn
Either that, or swallow him completely and be done with it. Remove the last Rommel from the earth and all stains of his father and mother with it. Alas, he was here representing a Court and... truth be told he wasn't ready to go back to Denocte, not with so many words running through his head, his skin near to bursting with the torrent inside. He'd found his own space near a bonfire, near enough to other groups that he would not be conspicuous, but not close enough to engage in conversation — indeed any that ventured too close were warned away with snaking shadows and deadly eyes. He wasn't entirely sure if staying was to punish himself or save himself — the longer he stayed the deeper his mind delved into too-real flaws, but to leave would be to accept the events of the Festival, make them real.
A murmuring thickened the air around him, the whisper of a hurricane brought home. He could see others looking upward, feel the excitement thrumming from woman and man alike as something caught their attention — someone beautiful no doubt, blessing the party with their presence. It's more than that, said the voice of reason, but Reichenbach turned his back on it, not interested in lightening the darkness of his own troubles. Was it over? Did tonight mean that Florentine no longer... no longer loved him? No longer wanted to be with him? He'd said some terrible things in the heat of the moment.
Curses and black words filled his head but stayed behind his lips, a little of the vibrancy he carried winking out quietly. That silence that was not silence shifted closer, and he knew who would speak before the sound of her voice coiled around his gold ringed ear. Aislinn. The bleakness within him turns, momentarily, to hope. Aislinn Stormsinger, a woman made of storms — perhaps the only woman aside from Rhoswen that truly knew what chaos lay beneath his dark skin.
But he had damned her, too. Not so long ago in a fragile time.
Was it to be two heartbreaks tonight, then?
He turned, shadows hovering uncertainly about him, as if unsure what they made of the woman who bled Calligo into the sky. The bonfire scattered light over his mahogany skin, casting him half in shadow and in flickering orange light. He simultaneously wanted to embrace her and turn away from her, knowing too well that she was to be his discipline tonight, that she would not waste time on paltry words of comfort.
"You're home.."
He began, unable to hide the relief and remedy that she had unknowingly brought with her. Too soon to say the dreaded words, to begin the dreaded conversation that lingered crookedly over his every word and movement.
"How was...?"
The Night King did not want to say funeral, not when he felt the presence of his own not so far away. There was so much to tell her — the appearance of his shadows and the sense of deeper magic, the status of inter-court relations and the secrets gathered, Florentine... Isorath.... Lysander. Rage echoed within him, strong and true, glinting in the corners of his long lashed eyes. Reich turned those eyes to his Champion, offering a strained smile.
"I'm glad you're back, Aislinn."
@Aislinn
