Yet another smile paints his dried and cracking lips - the words that so glibly spilled from her lips were as pleasant as hearing sonatas and hymns. It was not her voice that had made it all sound so..charming in his ears, but of the selection of words she’d chosen and stringed together into sentences. Rare had he ever been spoken to in the same manner as he did in this time, more than often - he was not always understood, there had been times where he had to repeat certain things for the latter to try understand. Sometimes he was told the fashion of his words was deemed odd, or unfitting. For some reason that he did not know or understand of, though he’d not minded it all too much. Perhaps, some things were better left not understood - even if he had gone through the hassle, it was not entirely certain his efforts would make much change at all, of course - he was not all so impatient. Though he’d rather not waste time. The prospect or possibility of anyone wanting to learn any better or even listen to him did not seem plausible either. It seemed many of those today possessed the disappointingly short span of attention of a fly. Though he had not minded so much - besides, there was no reason to lament or ruminate such a trivial matter.
The words she wove with her tongue reminded him strongly of his home - at the same time, the memories of the land where his blood had been spilled onto were both warming and tearing through his rib cage from the inside, and for a moment - he almost grimaced, having been reminded of the wandering memories. Both the memories he very much welcomed and abhorred pouring into his skull like smouldering acid corroding his brain. Of course he could never run away or escape from it all - only for long intervals that felt short, though. He couldn’t help but to ruminate each and every single memory intricately carved within his mind. Turning it over and over in his hands, feeling every sharp corner… cutting his fingers with it. Bleeding so much, and yet - he never learnt his lesson. He’d tell himself it’d be the last time, he’d forget - and he knew he’d never be able to forget, and that it would certainly not be the last. This was his punishment. This was the punishment he deserved. He’d not much reasoning to exist, truthfully. It suited him - he was nothing short or more but a vessel to incubate the horrible, horrible memories, to keep them warm and alive. The storm in his head growing more and more tempestuous. And not a single fleeting moment would pass by without him resenting it all. But mostly himself.
The sound of her voice rupturing his thoughts was more than a bliss - and for a short moment, he begins to.. forget yet again. Though not entirely either, it lay still - nestled in the back of his mind like some monster waiting to leap out of its hiding place and snag at his neck. He left the question of ego and vanity aside - not much to be added or had to be added in, and only a simple tip of his head was the reply he’d given in agreement to her words. His visage showing none of what had lingered in his mind a moment not too long ago. Though he could not quite agree with the words she spoke after - of when she’d spoken of murders and killers - he found it to be naive, in a way. But of course - each to their own, he supposes. Perhaps, she had yet to see the most worst of mortals. Yes, perhaps. “Ah, yes of course. How could I forget? Which reminds me of King Edward the first and Queen Eleanor of Castile. Known to be ruthless - and had.. quite the temper in his youth. Though had been the opposite when it came to the queen herself,” he pauses, his gaze falling upon the ground yet again, for a short moment before a sweeping glance toward her; “When her majesty had died, he’d erected twelve stone crosses to mark the route of her funeral procession from Lincoln to London. Quite romantic, no?” A short bout of laughter elicits past his lips - the word ‘romantic’ sounded.. somewhat odd in his ears when he’d came to enunciate it. Perhaps because of the fact he’d not been so used to pronouncing it. The talk of murders and killers he’d rather left behind - perhaps only because he’d felt it was not yet time to speak of it all or simply because he’d rather left it at that - among many other things.
Ah. How long had it been since he’d found someone (perhaps, again.) that had piqued so highly of his interest or even so close as to having a common interest? Probably a time too long that he almost felt that he was almost dreaming. Well, not entirely dreaming. But it seemed, in some ways, improbable. The corners of his lips widened to a slight extent - eyes crinkling into crescents. Death, she mentions. How weirdly fitting. Of course, only if she had known. But of course, he wasn’t all so eager to speak of his true identity and of what lay underneath his skin as eagerly as the talk of floriography and history and kings. “Ah, so it seems that you speak my mind - quite rare that I find one who does. A rose.. a rose brings many meanings, does it not? I believe so, if I remember quite well,” his brows furrow slightly, as if to try remember. “Red - typically meaning love, beauty, romance and passion, dark red or a deep burgundy for.. unconscious beauty, white for joyous love, pink for grace, gentleness and appreciation. Well, I also believe I’ve left out a few - colours and meanings, both.”
