𝙸𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙽𝙰𝙼𝙴 . he says it and her eyes flicker away , briefly , desperately . you can’t do this again , you must let him leave —— but she stands there still . she does not know it , she does not see the claws that are gripping into him now , consuming the thing that makes him , him . no , she does not know her own thorns , and for this , they will both suffer in her guilt . “ right . ” tiredly , always tiredly . this gross cacophony sneering on her tongue , the whispers of dead men and women bleeding out from within . but she does not know , she will never know . they will always hiss and stir , and she shall remain right in their nest . she will sit there and ache , never understanding herself ever again . this is penance . “ the lot of you should really reconsider those tongues wagging along like some poetic opera . you can’t help it , can you ? ” eyes flicker back to him , brows slanting in with allegation as he proudly invokes passion , and she cannot help but to be cruel . “ i think you’ve mistaken me with a wandering soul who might set ourselves a nice picnic basket and exchange sweet nothings in this world to ourselves —— perhaps you should reconsider . ” it echoes blandly , that training that has never left her . no family , no wife or husband , no attachments . and yet here he stands , so ever lightly mentioning it all , “ and perhaps you should also hear this from me to you , a little secret . ” her hand comes to rest on his back as she pats him solemnly , a jeer curling on her lips . “ i am fine without holding hands together as we walk about the forests of this godforsaken planet . ”
❝ 𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀 𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐍𝐈𝐂? ❞ Whatever jabs of the tongue fail to hit like an ill-timed tomato at the nimble jester. And so he tumbles on, warm and blithe and confident. Feigning the scandalized gasp, the patronizing tut, he croons. ❝ Shame . . . But I am here, if thou hast a change of heart. Never fear for thine honor with me when the Lord watcheth me. When we build tonight’s fire, perhaps I’ll sing thee the songs of Sir Tristan --- doleful man who could suck the melancholy from even an egg, but it made him a lovely harpist all the same. I’ve not the talents of a bard but I’ve learned to carry a tune, much to a lady’s delight. ❞ His whole being lights up, and he plucks her hand and nestles it into the crook of his elbow. The mockery of courtly love, with his coat of blood and mud and her practical trousers. Nonetheless, his gesture is frighteningly sincere and undeterred. A lady is a lady is a lady. Stubbornness sets in the line of his unfailing smile. ❝ But this I insist: thou ought to takest mine arm --------- here came an evil fog since the moment I laid mine eyes on thee. ❞ He gazes ahead, solemn now. In mere seconds, the knight baffles at how the fog has thickened since the last body had fallen, now obscuring the scarce colors. Spots of light from the fires still burning all around break through the murky grey, yet only dimly. ❝ If not for romance, then for caution. I am not so brave as to dismiss the devil’s breath amongst the trees for travels. Surely, in cleverness, thou would’st agree. ❞
andulkaphoto
tangentwithtanner
origamiaround
izzy806
jbbartram-illu
blakekathryn
