#godwitch

" your majesty, " cup of wine in his hand, he gives a flourish of a bow, his free hand securely tucked to his abdomen in a rather absurd demonstration of chivalry. his snake's eyes watch her rather exactingly, though the effect is somewhat intentionally dimmed by his demeanor otherwise. the serpentine tail hanging at his side twitches at its end, otherwise curling once around his calf, nearly prim and proper. half a king, half a cad. " allow me to welcome you to the court of thorns. alas that we were not better prepared to receive you. my advisors trust that your correspondence must simply have been ... lost. " dismissive, almost as though he does not care one way or another - and as tristan the puppet king, he certainly would not, but his personal suspicion will certainly have him inspecting any goblet or morsel of food placed before him for the duration of the visit. while he cannot imagine a reason why the ethereal court would wish him dead in particular, he has learned well in his life to trust no one. " but it is my deepest wish you will accept what hospitality we are able to offer on such short notice. "

the wizard stretches himself across her table,   pushing his arms out in front of him much like a cat would.   then he straightens himself back up to lean on both his arms,   looking up at the ceiling in mock interest.   there's nothing interesting about ceilings.    ❝    do you know,   i think it's utter nonsense what anyone says.   i've heard fools say that women who exhibit any amount of obstinacy would make terrible wives for anyone who respected themselves.    ❞    he huffs,   as if he finds something about that statement funny.   it's clear,   when he speaks next,   that his thoughts are what amuse him.    ❝    well,   we all know your horns are made of iron and diamond,   and anyone who doesn't have a head strong enough to butt against yours isn't worth the trouble anyways.   don't think i believe that about you,   mind you.    ❞

@godwitch.   ‘ the stories say brides don’t live to the light before demons devour them.   why should i become one ? ’

❝    ah,   but you should learn that every story passed from generation to generation becomes more warped and untrue the more mouths it passes through.   the stories also say :   those who don't finish every speck of food on their plates will grow warts and callouses on their bodies,   and ;   those who think to challenge just authority shall be punished for all eternity,   doomed to become another sisyphus for the ages,   a shining example to us all .   so far,   i've seen neither of these things come true very often.   i doubt there's a lick of truth to any of the stories you've heard.   although i have heard of demons devouring the unruly husbands and wives  …    ❞

he clicks his tongue and offers the woman an exaggerated simper.    ❝    then again,   perhaps it would be better if the stories were a little true.   nothing good ever comes of brides and demons.   you should clean any demons out thoroughly before a single thought of marriage crosses your mind.    ❞    and then,   with a grunt,   he stands up right again,   approaching until he's only a good several feet away.   from here,   he can even spot the blues of her eyes,   and perhaps a third shade of her dark hair.    ❝    for the record,   i would be terribly sorry if you were to become a bride.    ❞    it's not clear if he means for himself,   or for her,   nor does he offer the clarification.

.゜––   of fairytales, folklore and faekind.  /  𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐.

there was joy to be had in denying her. or rather, for the time being, in watching circumstance deny her. her words were half-hissed beneath her own breath from irritation, and half-pressed to his ear when she closed the distance between them to utter them. the war council was far more occupied with the decree of the dragon king to take notice of this incursion, but that hardly mattered; the princess had her whims, and they were seldom hindered except in matters as formal as this. he remained as he was, from endurable practice: ramrod straight and unfazed in his royal seat, mismatched eyes staring unblinkingly at some stern-faced councillor preaching politics.

but if there was any doubt that he had heard her perfectly clear, despite the bustle, it was wiped away when his mouth twitched into a scythe's smile.

❛❛ do you know about zeno?   ❜❜ he said abruptly, a whisper too. so far, none had noticed their discussion taking place, too far invested in the lurking movements of the opposing spring courts. as the only delegate of delos there, he kept one ear at the table and the other an appetite for her teeth. ❛❛ he said if a turtle has a head start, then achilles, the fastest achaean, could never catch up to it.   ❜❜ still he would not look at his wife. his untrust-worthy face, hiding the extent of satisfaction there was to take over her impatience and mischief and ire, shined in the high daylight. he lowered his hand, tapping the top of her armoured thigh. ❛❛ slow down, achilles.   ❜❜

TWO BEASTS AT REST, DOCILE, TUCKED IN THE DEPTHS OF A CAVE CARVED INTO A MOUNTAIN FACE, AVOIDING THE DESERT HEAT. they have burrowed deeply enough that they have lost sight of the entrance, their chosen cavern lit only by a small fire flickering not far from them. despite the merciless sun scouring the sands beyond the cave's mouth, the chill in the depths of the cuts deep, such that it almost feels refreshing in comparison, requiring the use of their packed bedding – and enough to justify the additional use of body heat. not that tristan feels he has any particular need for a reason, other than the nature of them both as suspicious creatures more likely to snarl at a touch too gentle than willingly accept it. they are lethal enough to have earned plenty of individual attempts on their lives.

it isn't the first time @godwitch has reclined against his chest this way, not the first time they've found themselves entwined, innocently or otherwise. the witcher would claim that endless travel makes for strange bedfellows, but in truth, he finds it not to be strange at all, but rather, the logical progression of their circumstances. together, they create some inversion of the storybook tales in which valiant knights faithfully serve benevolent queens ; she, a beastly goddess, as beautiful as she is terrible, and he, the assassin's blade silent at her side, prepared to do as bid. for them, then, a restrained courtly love would stand to no reason. they hunger, and so they feast when they become ravenous, often after battle, eagerly consuming the blood of others from the canvas of each other's flesh. this sort of peace is rarer, a breath held amongst the chaos of the flight of the queen with no crown and her outcast sellsword.

his eyes do not open as she speaks, the warmth of her breath brushing against the flat of his chest with each word, but a distant hum escapes him deep in his throat, more a rumble than anything. he is not a creature predisposed to rest particularly, with senses perpetually heightened, predisposed to feverish dreams of past horrors. but for now, however briefly, he is docile, teeth tucked neatly behind his lips and metaphorical claws only pulling gently through her hair, against her scalp, like some pauper's imitation of a lover, of intimacy. as though he would know what it looked like, felt like, tasted like, if he tried. it is only after a long pause – long enough that it nearly seems he hadn't heard her – that he speaks, his voice a low rasp in his throat, not even loud enough to find the slightest echo in the wide chamber.

❛❛ i see you in multitudes,   ❜❜ the prince muttered back from his hiding, though it was a tidy bit of deflection, an answering without an answering. ❛❛ now leave me be.   ❜❜ but the large snout of a prying dragon would decidedly not. perhaps she smells it on him, the pollen of a few cut flowers, of ichor and slashed cuts. the teeth of her court shared its similarities with the might of his own, but here they would forgo their illusions, and wield cruelty in brute fists. but other than that, he was no favourite son here, but an outlander who had married their princess. it has been a few good days now since he had trapped her father's advisor beneath her wrath, who carried out his sentence beneath the consort's command, bitterly.

a victory, surely, but he was one creature, and he friends of friends, and he was certain they had sought this chance to injure him. that was the nature of the game, and he would neither complain nor protest to his wife, lest he lose all worth together.