—
He is no wolf, snarling, his pack cut from him and dead and rotting at their den.
He is a hunter who will never again set down his sword. He is a soldier who will not forget the lesson of mercy’s betrayal. No beast kills for revenge.
The unicorn’s lips are tight against his teeth even as he smiles when she says make you. Nobody, he could tell her, has made him do anything in a long, long time. The thought of it - of her trying - makes his heart stumble like a hound when it crosses a new scent. There is vengeance, there is his due - and then there is something else. More animal. More pleasurable.
Her eyes are sparks even as they beg him for burning. His skin feels flushed, hot as fresh blood, even as his eyes remain forest-shadow cool, distant as an eagle overhead.
As her feathers trace along his throat he swallows a groan. As her skin begs to be bruised, his mind urges him to pluck a feather from her wing, a quill to call his own - to write his letters with.
“Meet me,” he says, as they stand shoulder-to-soldier like two dancers frozen between one step and the next, “outside the gates at dawn.” And then he steps away without a glance back, across the room, through the arch of the doorway. And as he goes he thinks and we will see who will make, and who will beg.
@Amaunet
He is a hunter who will never again set down his sword. He is a soldier who will not forget the lesson of mercy’s betrayal. No beast kills for revenge.
The unicorn’s lips are tight against his teeth even as he smiles when she says make you. Nobody, he could tell her, has made him do anything in a long, long time. The thought of it - of her trying - makes his heart stumble like a hound when it crosses a new scent. There is vengeance, there is his due - and then there is something else. More animal. More pleasurable.
Her eyes are sparks even as they beg him for burning. His skin feels flushed, hot as fresh blood, even as his eyes remain forest-shadow cool, distant as an eagle overhead.
As her feathers trace along his throat he swallows a groan. As her skin begs to be bruised, his mind urges him to pluck a feather from her wing, a quill to call his own - to write his letters with.
“Meet me,” he says, as they stand shoulder-to-soldier like two dancers frozen between one step and the next, “outside the gates at dawn.” And then he steps away without a glance back, across the room, through the arch of the doorway. And as he goes he thinks and we will see who will make, and who will beg.
@Amaunet
