[ Something has stung him - something in her command and in his failure to heed it. It is shame, she thinks, for the fact that he cannot summon light. She had not expected him to; it is her habit to sweep an unseen cloak about herself, brocaded heavily with doubt and scorn. If he proves that he is less than he has claimed to be, or less than she had hoped he was, then she cannot be stung in turn by disappointment. If she anticipates failure, then her face need not betray the pang of despair she feels when he fails her. She will have already been armored against it.
He speaks of magic still, believing it still to be true, and she makes an inadvertent fist of the fingers curled into the pale folds of her lusterless robe. To burn this place to the ground - that would be the most satisfying display of magic she could imagine. To reduce these crumbling ruins to ashes, to depart as imperviously as shadows into the woods; she can fathom nothing sweeter. But he cannot give her that, is no more a master of flames than she herself is, and she slices her gaze after the futile work of his hands. He summons nothing from the air, conjures neither bed nor pillow nor crown. He is just another hapless prisoner, morose that nothing remains to him.
She laughs when he declares his next venture, her gaze following him only for half a moment before rolling away. He cannot present to her a crown. The diadems of rubies and emeralds that she wears at court are to be found nowhere in this provincial hell. She is readying to abandon the scene completely, to demand from another pair of hands an altogether different bedroll, when he returns.
Her arms are crossed, agitated by her own insistence on lingering, when she spots the branches under his own arm. That he has fulfilled his offer to find them startles her, particularly because he stands to gain nothing from doing so, and especially because she specifically assured him that she did not want them. More jarring still is the fact that in his hand there is held a crown. It is made of no diamonds and no rubies, but it is fashioned as a crown should be. It is garnished not with burnished gold nor with crystal, but with unassuming leaves.
As she had assumed he would never bother to deliver to her branches, let alone tailor for her a makeshift crown, she can for a time only blink at what he has brought. A twist of light carved out of thin air would have been gratifying for the more severe powers it suggested, but this plain, purposeless trinket makes something in her chest ache. She does not know what to make of a crown which comes without a price. The one she'd worn before had demanded nothing less than her life, and everything therein. ]
Why did you do that? [ She's reaching for it despite the suspicion bristling in her voice, hesitant as though the pretty circlet might reveal itself to be a viper. Why would he do this? This sort of kindness, utterly bare of manipulation, leaves her dumbstruck, and to be left dumbstruck infuriates her. That displeasure is in open contention against the pleasure of receiving this gift, and she takes it before it can be refused. Her fingers are gentle in their study even as her voice is whip-thin, beholding magic despite herself. ]
no subject
He speaks of magic still, believing it still to be true, and she makes an inadvertent fist of the fingers curled into the pale folds of her lusterless robe. To burn this place to the ground - that would be the most satisfying display of magic she could imagine. To reduce these crumbling ruins to ashes, to depart as imperviously as shadows into the woods; she can fathom nothing sweeter. But he cannot give her that, is no more a master of flames than she herself is, and she slices her gaze after the futile work of his hands. He summons nothing from the air, conjures neither bed nor pillow nor crown. He is just another hapless prisoner, morose that nothing remains to him.
She laughs when he declares his next venture, her gaze following him only for half a moment before rolling away. He cannot present to her a crown. The diadems of rubies and emeralds that she wears at court are to be found nowhere in this provincial hell. She is readying to abandon the scene completely, to demand from another pair of hands an altogether different bedroll, when he returns.
Her arms are crossed, agitated by her own insistence on lingering, when she spots the branches under his own arm. That he has fulfilled his offer to find them startles her, particularly because he stands to gain nothing from doing so, and especially because she specifically assured him that she did not want them. More jarring still is the fact that in his hand there is held a crown. It is made of no diamonds and no rubies, but it is fashioned as a crown should be. It is garnished not with burnished gold nor with crystal, but with unassuming leaves.
As she had assumed he would never bother to deliver to her branches, let alone tailor for her a makeshift crown, she can for a time only blink at what he has brought. A twist of light carved out of thin air would have been gratifying for the more severe powers it suggested, but this plain, purposeless trinket makes something in her chest ache. She does not know what to make of a crown which comes without a price. The one she'd worn before had demanded nothing less than her life, and everything therein. ]
Why did you do that? [ She's reaching for it despite the suspicion bristling in her voice, hesitant as though the pretty circlet might reveal itself to be a viper. Why would he do this? This sort of kindness, utterly bare of manipulation, leaves her dumbstruck, and to be left dumbstruck infuriates her. That displeasure is in open contention against the pleasure of receiving this gift, and she takes it before it can be refused. Her fingers are gentle in their study even as her voice is whip-thin, beholding magic despite herself. ]