there was no comparison here to his own life. the sorcerer had always found a way to outrun his pyre. ( but when did you manage to save anyone other than yourself ? ) once, where he could, he had, but he never managed to save his brothers, nor the witch he treasured most. there, an assault of words flung recklessly finds the gap in his armor, and he stiffens behind her back, nostrils flaring with an intake of a breath, a swipe of a tongue along a fuming maw that would be just as quick to retaliate... but he does not engage.
instead he holds, watches how the dryad's own wounded temper whirls and weeds through her mettle; how boldly she dares the first intruding step; how she postures her heroics to oppose his darkened silhouette, as if rage in contrasting colors isn't the same righteous knife, forged from the same means, honed for the same ends. koschei's stare meets hers, knowing enough now to see theirs was not a difference of heart, but perspective. the distance between there and here ? penumbral and workable, if he played this right.
a hard shove would call it an impassable sky. he half-expected the rejection, but the insult cuts too deep into his pride. something red and serpentine slithers beneath the thin ice of his eyes, cautioning and boiling with impatience. even the larch trees seem to rustle and shrink away from the tsar as he makes his sudden advance: one step forward, then five more, until his invasive and unnerving closeness pushes her to the water's edge. the swords within their reach are all too apparent when the base of his palm sits at the top of a black hilt. a moment passes, lingers too long into another. ( if he wanted to hurt her, by now he would have. )
ββ she is already dead, ββ he says caustically. a low and metallic trill hums within his scabbard, then crimson plumes of magic diffuse from the rested palm that raises from his side towards the scene. it ripples with the water, unbraids itself back to the beginning and starts again, but the harsh twist of a gold-cuffed wrist whips a second wind to banish it away. ββ in buyan, the water renews or remembers a life. ββ the lake was a shared focal point between the chyerti realms; elsewhere, the dead water foresees and possesses every ending.
ββ had i the wisdom and ability to not tolerate their ignorance from the start, this war could have ended much sooner. but i know how to bide my time and live with an enemy so that i might learn them; to strike unsparingly only where and when it counts, not when a bleeding conscience compels it. that is how you will end up a martyr, while your treacherous sorcerer continues to grow in power. ββ he cocks his head, surveying her with a detached smile, then returns dryly: ββ . . . but what would i know of it ? in fact, you are right to refuse my help. i think i should like to see what enough time makes of your shining armor, and what you'll make of all your compassion. ββ
jacobvanloon
dededos
dailybridgerton
baratheonpilled
