[P] No Mercy

[Isorath]

I S O R A T H — the night has a thousand eyes — but all I see is you. Love was cruel, Isorath knew that first hand. Such a volatile, capricious emotion which cared little for whom it hurt — as long as it pierced true in the end. All those it had felled in the process, the pieces of him spared a long moment of reflection upon. Aislinn. Florentine. It had never been his intention to be caught in the crossfire, to be the painted target for a gilded arrow to strike him. It had, it had embedded deep between the ivory cage in his chest and his heart had grabbed onto it with abandon. It would not be ignored, it would not remain empty and bereft in it's confines again. Now, they stood among the burning hearts and stormborn emotions, the skies darkened on the horizon as the grains of sand continued to pour in the hourglass. A storm was coming, Isorath had no doubt about that. In a World where the heart often ruled the head. Amethysts watched the man born from shadows and woodsmoke, the glint of gold and moons for eyes. Hearts would rage for this, one which held blossoms in it's grasp and another who commanded the storms like the sea did. Would he end up like them? Would a trinity arise? Would he be doomed to the same ill-fated end. The more he thought, the more his heart decreed no. They had not withstood the man who stood beside him, but they were not forged from Dragon's blood and conquest. He was. In the marrow of his bones his Gods had forged his bones, struck them in dragon fire and tempered them in the rains of a hurricane whipped by leather wings. He would burn anyone for the insult. Anyone who dared to tread over his heart accidental or not. Isorath was beautiful and fair, and oh so very full of grace, but he was also cruel. Unforgiving. I had some educating to do. "The lesson went well then?" A glance is given to the blood again, the ichor of a god laid low splattered carelessly upon a smoky canvas. "Too well." The Herald concluded after a moment of silence on his behalf, his gaze retreating to meet silver ones after they lingered on the sanguine smattered against too dark lips. He would never deny Reichenbach his instincts, the imperative need to be who he was. Chains no matter the metal or no matter the reasoning, were not his taste. But there were consequences. Consequences Isorath would have him face, himself included. He allowed the King to come closer, a bemused smile dancing on pale lips at the cautiousness of such a move. As if he was courting a serpent deciding to strike, a dragon keenly watching an interloper. Smart man, and for that another fond chord is struck between his ribs, another silent laugh laugh is exhaled into the night air. "I am not Florentine." The words come easy, laced with embers with fire left to give. Ready to ignite into an inferno at the Prince's command. "And I am not Aislinn. I will not suffer the same treatment, accidental or not. I will not ask you to change for me, and I will not ask you to be something you are not." They are quiet words, made for them alone as he laid them out between them, lilted and soft, but as sharp and dangerous as a knife point. He cannot leave them unsaid, or for some point in the far future as a passing fancy. "There will be troubles for this love, this dance of ours. Are you prepared for that? to love me? Unconditionally, and without measure? I am a selfish creature, greedy for love and greedier for the tenderness it brings. I will not stand for half-measures, and I will not stand for second or to be replaced." He paused, a snow white brow quirked as he wielded his words like his rapier in the thick of battle. He would not forgive, and a slight would be a slight met with fire. "But, I will adore you as you were made to be adored, Reich. I will love you without restraint, fiercely and unforgiving." He's looking at the King of Shadows and Night now, truly looking. Piercing as the arrow he had been pierced with, lilac into silver. "If so, then I will dance with you, my love." His own voice dropped, it's song a sirens melody on the waves. Soft, sinous as if one might slide over satin and silk. A pale muzzle reached out for him, tentative in it's searching. After an age of starvation, this new found affection is strange and exhilarating. It pressed against the strong line of Reichenbach's cheek and lingered. "If you can keep up, and mind the fire, that is." TAG: @Reichenbach