And somewhere lions roam, quite unaware,
in their magnificence, of any weaknesss.
The first thing that strikes me is her beauty. There are few women I find beautiful; but every so often there is one that tempts, in a way Eve tempted or Pandora opened, and I cannot help the smile that falls guileless across my lips. There is no extra flare or excessive angle; she wears her headdress frill as I do my scimitar horns, and the pale grey of her trim figure reflects the moonlight like a blade, cool and pointed. That depends, she says, as she drinks, her eyes on me. On who you are? in their magnificence, of any weaknesss.
My attraction to men is in their regal softness; the emotion that flits behind hard panes of expression; the lines of muscles; the need to protect and be protected, reassured, held and sent on.
My attraction to women is always to devour. A strange hunger, drunken and ignored, that rises unbidden. My smiles takes on an edge, crooked up at the corner with the scar. “Torix.” I do not lie, only shorten. Her eyes are bright with unshed laughter, and I realise the admission of my name falls a little lamely on the cool night air. It has been so long since I have played the part of entertainer, flirtatious and confident.
I remember, briefly and with bitterness, the night of my coronation. It had been after Bondike told me the truth of himself, but before I had confessed that truth to everyone else—and all night, those crimson eyes had followed me as I danced, and laughed, and took Dagda to bed out of pure, burning spite.
I don’t let the memory colour my expression. I toss my own drink back instead and say, “Trust me.” A twitch at the edge of my emerald eyes; an almost smile. “I’m worth knowing.”
I hear whispers behind us as a pair of girls walk onto the patio. Isn’t that Anandi? The Emissary of Dusk? They giggle, high and bright and juvenile, and I send a flippant glance over my shoulder toward them. When I turn back, the smile is burning-bright. I know nothing of her. But I pretend to. “Tsk, tsk—the Emissary escaping her royal duties?”
There is a small, whispered detail from black markets and city squares and dockyards that is escaping me—
What was it, about her, that I should know?
Right now, it doesn’t matter. She holds herself like royalty, like a charmed princess; I wonder why, and nearly ask. Instead, I offer: “Tell me, Emissary, what’s the most reckless thing you’ve ever done?” And there is laughter unshed in my voice; laughter unshed in my eyes. And that damnable smile that I know offers, charming and insufferable, whatever it is, I can show you better.
