❛ my touch is black and poisonous. ❜
PANIC! AT THE DISCO STARTERS!
“YOU DO WRONG YOUR HAND TOO MUCH.” of all the visitors their little island got, none have been such as him. he bears the mark of the gods, one of her maids whispered to her when he was brought to the palace, a modest sort of court for a king, though her father would not have had it another way. our palace is the land we are given by the gods – the sun we bask in, grow under.
he’d been washed ashore, mostly unhurt but for a few bruises, scrapes. the closest isle was delos though maaike doubted he came from the birthplace of phoebus. he had not the look of a temple boy, nor could he very well be a priestess. perhaps he was on a ship – a scholar, a traveler, a pirate.
icarus. that was his name. icarus.
“forgive me for saying so, but i am far more wary of your words than your touch. i sense in you a kindness but your speech – evasive, dancing. you must have studied with some philosopher, some great teacher? the way you speak is like you are trying to fly.”
maaike turned her face to the sky then, closes her eyes in the sunlight. in the distance she could hear the call for dinner, knew that their time alone was soon to end. “is there a conversation up there i cannot hear?” eyes open to pierce him, questioning, demanding. “what libations must i send to partake in it? what tribute shall i give just to catch a moment, a phrase?”
the calls echoed closer, maaike’s gaze wavering on icarus’ face. stepping closer, she reached out, deliberate, and took his hand. her grip was strong though her fingers trembled. “we will meet later, and you will tell me, won’t you? there is much outside of this small place i have not seen – you would do me a service to speak even a fraction of it.”
her lips were soft when she pulled his hand up to press a kiss against his knuckles, letting both their hands fall down to their sides once more. “come. best not to keep my father waiting any longer.” // @waxcdwings
