She hadn't meant to. She hadn't meant to. She hadn't meant to. Images of the Winter Court's prince Vaerlis bleeding on the ballroom floor, his blood as red as anything else, somehow she'd almost expected water? Him falling back, toppling over; the place erupting into chaos.
Winter fae suddenly armoured and gleaming with rapidly crystallising armour; her own entourage flaring wings and baring teeth. Both closing in on their royals with the protective ferocity of a hive.
The thorn that had bloomed into her hand dripping with crimson.
How they'd gotten out, she had no clue; if there had been a fight, or a struggle, she had no clue. Had someone carried her? Had there been flying? She was only suddenly in a careening carriage bounding down a road, swaying for every sharp turn, and she thought maybe Axis had his arms around her.
Eventually, the mad dash of her vehicle began to slow down. She fixated on the rose pattern that clad the inside of it, the almost hypnotic repetition of the silk embroidery.
Ah. She'd killed him, hadn't she? Yes she had. Because his eyes had suddenly gleamed with stark hunger mid-dance, he'd whispered something that was probably meant to be seductive - can a mortal bride survive a fae's passion? - as a distraction; but she'd caught it. The tip of his icicle knife, just about to slide in between her ribs. Thin, so thin, needle thin.
And when she'd reached out to grab a hold of him, something had happened. It had felt violent, the way the thorn extended from her wrist and pierced his throat - a whip of black wood that came and went fast as a viper strikes.
Tara looked straight ahead, face empty, as she had been doing for maybe two hours now; and then, with a sudden, abrupt, intake of breath - shuddering tears welled in her eyes. Oh god. Oh god. She'd killed him. Oh god.
