#rowanofwar

Leave a “Wed Me” in my ask and I’ll write a drabble about our characters under the subject of wedlock ( be it my character proposing to yours or marrying yours; feel free to specify ).

“Rowan,” he groaned into his pillow, voice muffled. “Eto slishkom chertovski rano.” It’s too fucking early. His words went unheeded ( surprise, surprise ), and moments later, he felt slender fingers wrap around his wrist and tug his arm backwards, a half-hearted attempt to pry him away from his small bunk in the prison guards’ quarters. He felt the weight of her feet on the bed on either side of him, and from the sharp angle at which she pulled his arm, he could tell that she was standing over his sleeping form, trying in vain to rouse him from what had been a peaceful slumber. “But you promised,” she whined, tugging harder this time ( at this rate, she was going to pull his shoulder right out of its socket ). “You promised you’d wake up early and spar with me.” Another tug. “Well, if I’d known early meant the ungodly crack of dawn, I would’ve never agreed to that, would I have?” he grumbled, face still pressed into his pillow. “Of course not,” she conceded, sounding deceptively sweet. “That’s why I didn’t mention it.” Another tug, this one accompanied by the shaking of the small mattress as she began bouncing back on her heels. “Come on, come on, come on! Rise and shine, sunsh—!” Her words were swallowed up in the whoosh of air she expelled when he lifted his head in her direction, pulled his arm away from her, snaked that very same arm around the backs of her knees, and gave a good, hard tug, sending her toppling to the bed with a huff, the top half of her landing next to him and the lower half of her sprawling across him, limbs tangling together. 

“Sh,” he grunted, eyes falling shut once more as his hand clamped over her mouth, creating what would have been an effective muzzle. Alas, not three seconds later, he felt sharp, tiny teeth bite into his skin, leaving him with no choice but to jerk his hand away. “Rowan,” he growled, begrudgingly opening his eyes halfway and noting with some annoyance ( and some amusement ) the red imprint of teethmarks on his hand. “It’s too early for biting.” She pushed herself up into a reclining position, resting much of her weight on her elbow and dropping the side of her head into the cradle of her hand as she looked over at him through thick lashes, a coy smile curling the corners of her lips. “It’s never too early for biting, a rún mo chroí,” she purred, the twinkle of mischief that shone in her eyes emphasizing the implication of her words. His lips tilted upward into a half-asleep, crooked grin at the sound of the Gaelic term of endearment, his eyes ticking open a fraction more. ( It never ceased to astound him, the natural ease with which his body instinctively responded to her, as if his eyes and hands and arms and legs and lips were all connected by strings to her fingers—fingers that could play his vessel like Beethoven played piano. ) “Oh, he smiles,” she gasped dramatically, her fingers fluttering over her mouth with exaggerated shock. He rolled his eyes at her theatrics, reaching out to flick her temple as he twisted his lips into a deep frown for the sole purpose of contradicting her. She heaved a loud sigh, her brow furrowing with frustration ( there was something so tremendously satisfying about getting under the Ice Queen’s skin ) as she placed a palm on his chest and gave him a good shove. “You’re such a grouch,” she chided exasperatedly, hooking one leg over his lower back ( her actions were often at odds with her words, it seemed ) and dropping her head to the other side of his pillow, her hand reaching out to capture a lock of his hair between her fingers. “You’d drive lesser people mad, you big grump. I can’t imagine anyone’ll be able to tolerate you for a whole eternity. Besides me, of course.” 

He cocked a brow, hooded eyes still clouded with sleep peering over at her. “You’re right,” he mumbled sluggishly. “S’pose I’ll just have to marry you, then, yes?” The mirthful string of bell-like laughter ( a lullaby if he ever did hear one ) that she offered up in response to his proposition drew him fully from the veil of sleep, his eyes opening fully and the corners of his lips climbing upward in tandem with the rise and fall of her chest. “Hell of a marriage proposal,” she teased, her fingers still sifting ( absentmindedly, it seemed ) through his sandy locks in a way that made him feel so at peace that he was very nearly lulled right back to sleep. 

“What do you think that’d be like?” he asked curiously as he rolled over, falling into the cradle of her thighs and planting his forearms on either side of the small bunk, hovering over her so as not to lay his full weight on her. “Us, married?” His lips dropped to the crook of her neck as he waited for her answer, sweeping from her collarbone to the slope of her shoulder and planting fleeting kisses along the way. He could feel the faint vibrations of her heartbeat against his lips; could feel the change in tempo as the dull, steady thump became much quicker and much more clumsy. “Well,” she mused, voice breathy and not as even as it usual was, “Alastair would be positively tickled, I’m sure.” He chuckled heartily, the sound pouring straight from his lips and into her skin, traveling through her bones and body cavities and exiting through her own lips in a reincarnated laugh that mirrored his own. But then everything got very, very quiet as the gravity of his question settled around them both, making the air feel suddenly very thick. He withdrew his lips from her shoulder, lifting his head and leaning forward, so that he had free rein to search the planes her face ( he’d long ago mapped out and memorized each freckle, each scar, each mark, each curve ) as thoroughly and for as long as he pleased.

What would it be like? To wed Rowan? In many ways, he was already wed to her, really; his allegiance was wed to her and his hands were wed to her and his secrets were wed to her. To be really wed to her, though, what would that be like? It couldn’t happen in this world, surely, for marriage was far too human a thing for black-winged bringers of the apocalypse. He wondered what would it be like if they left this place; if they put their wings to good use and flew far, far away to a place they’d never be found and woke up every morning exactly as they were at present, legs tangled and lips locked ( and matching rings branding them as belonging to each other ). He wondered what it would be like if they escaped the clutches of war returned to Russia or to Ireland and spent the rest of their immortal days in bathtubs and beds and libraries and meadows, surviving on the food of conversation and the drink of physical touch. He wondered what it would be like if their human lives had been very different, if their timelines had overlapped and their paths had crossed. He wondered what it would be like to bring her home to his mother, to his sweet sister, who would undoubtedly be taken with Rowan’s locks of red ( Petra always did love red things ) and who would be as enthralled as Gale was by the musical sound of Gaelic that sprang from her tongue. He wondered what it would be like to do with her all the human things that came hand in hand with marriage; he wondered what it would be like to dance with her and to travel with her and to explore with her and to do everything on Earth with her. But he wondered all of these things in a pocket of his mind that was reserved for imagination and theoretics, for none of these things could ever come to fruition. Rowan and Gale couldn’t leave this place; they couldn’t escape the clutches of war ( and even if they could, he’s certain his goddess of war would sooner escape him than escape war ); they couldn’t change their human lives and they couldn’t change fate’s timelines; and they certainly couldn’t be human. 

And, knowing all of these things, he bowed his head and pressed his lips to the center of her forehead, the gesture small but enormously tender and intimate and human. He could never wed her, no, not in this lifetime, but he thought that maybe this was enough. These fleeting moments where it was just them; wherein the rest of the world was fast asleep and she allowed for brief interludes of being human and of belonging to each other and to no one else. He didn’t know how many more of those fleeting moments they had left; he didn’t know if they would have a hundred more of these mornings together or if this war would divide them tomorrow and this morning would be their last; he didn’t know when these moments would expire, no, but he treasured all of the pseudo-married seconds he had with her nonetheless, for he knew that marriage of allegiance and of touch and of secrets would be all this world could give them, and he was content to live in the fantasy of what could be that came with the quiet of breaking of dawn and her body beside him in his bed. 

There was a stillness between her ribs that most often occurred at night. She wore the shadows like a hat, like a cloak, like a crown. There was a viciousness to the quiet that occurred after midnight that ran down her spine in a caress, and it was most often the time she felt most at home. She’d slept half the day away in waiting for it, for the time before dawn-light where she felt safest. Any earlier, and she might have felt overly raw, her heart an exposed and fleshy thing in her chest.

Eve had beaten her at her own game. Seduction, in its cruelest sense. How wicked she was, to offer Lilith any kind of respite, to make her think for a moment that someone who didn’t share her beloved black wings might see the workings of her mind without recoiling. Eve was a dream of the past, but her friends allies? They were the future. They were her eternity. If she was to move forward, she would need to shed the sallow skin that held the memory of Eve’s passion, of her touch. Banish it, stomp it to pieces, tear it apart until nothing of her awful weakness remained.

It was a keening sort of pain, to realize she’d loved wanted someone a over two thousand years and it wasn’t going to be enough. Not to bridge the somehow insurmountable gap that stood between them.

Now, Lilith was retreating to lick her wounds. There were very few people she would deign to be around when she did, and even fewer she might seek out. But always, she seemed to be reaching out to Rowan. Eve, she’d once thought, was born to mother humanity, as fierce and protective as any; Lilith hadn’t been created with those capabilities. Or rather, she hadn’t thought so. Who would want to distort their body and give away valuable years of their life to raising a defenseless creature into something passable?

Rowan had slunk out of the dark, a black widow so dark she hypnotized. She’d been so new, so fearless, a tempest at the heart of demons who felt little to nothing. Lilith’s passion had waned for so long, the phase seemed to be permanent -- a fixture of the age tethered to her bones like an anchor. The ferocity of Rowan still surprised her. It had been a thousand years, give or take here and there, since she’d seen her, and still, she managed to be vexing. It would have irritated many, but it was a delight for Lilith to find a mind that was as prism-like and puzzling as hers. 

It took nothing to navigate the halls that separated them. She could’ve walked the route in her sleep, though she’d barely been five days in Paradise. It was instinct to know where to find Rowan, when her thoughts buzzed in her ears or her heart felt hollow or she wanted that laugh to spark Lilith’s. She knocked before she entered, but she was certain Rowan wouldn’t refuse her. The girl never slept, her mind on a thousand things at once. 

People always expected Lilith to sleep naked, or in a fancy teddy, and when she was on, that might be her go-to. But tonight she was off, so very thrown off she was spinning, and she wore basic pajamas, a wine bottle in one hand and glasses in the other. If she was going to have any kind of weighty, emotional conversation, she was going to drink. Whether it got her drunk or not.

She closed the door and leaned against the frame, managing to carry her burdens rather gracefully in spite of their awkward weight. The sight of Rowan, looking decidedly un-Rowan-like, was enough to bench her own feelings for the time being. “Looking less than selfish, today, my star.” It was a stranger thing to say between any two people but them. To Lilith, the intent was clear: to care about Rowan was a top priority of hers, and she reminded Rowan that it should be a top priority for Rowan as well. To care about how others felt about her was beneath her, though that didn’t mean Lilith couldn’t understand the sentiment. 

    The manor had fallen into stillness. In the basement, no stubborn sand-bag swayed on its chains, collided into motion by a forceful, demon-wielded punch. In the halls, not a single footstep echoed; no soul scurried, no watchful eyes peered. In the library, no page-turn sounded, soft as an intimate, erotic utterance. The very world seemed held in suspension, awaiting the beginning, the moment, the night’s event: The humans were to come. The angels would be released from their cells. It was to be an extravagant, devastating affair. Somewhere, young Holly worked her flaxen tresses into a smooth chignon, or perhaps virginal braids, or maybe merely smoothed them to a sheen. Somewhere, Samson reluctantly pressed his sinewed arms into the sleeves of a tuxedo ( maybe thinking of her, maybe not ). Somewhere, Lilith adorned herself modestly, knowing she needed nothing more than her most basic and carnal form in order to attract, entice, capture. 

    In Delilah’s quarters, though, there was only she and one another. Two seductresses of a different kind. Two artists of vastly different medium. Two women pigmented in varying shades of the same hue. Poised at her vanity, Delilah carefully swiped her smile into reality, painting it into existence with a slash of her wrist. Rowan – the crimson horse, the dame who chose to kill rather than be killed for, War herself – danced just across from her, moving at once with brutal precision and playful abandon. A thing at once liquid, and flinty like a blade’s edge. Her words jolted Delilah from her reverie; tore her forcefully from waking daydreams, idle fantastical thoughts. They dripped like honey, viscous and richly sweet.

    And all she said, with voice nothing more than a murmur: 

    “Could you?” 

    Delilah could not help but be entranced. Contained in her was all the power she’d longed for since she was a girl; all the gall and ferocity she’d lacked. All the graceful, feminine dynamism. She was woman in its purest, most unforgivingly true form. It was shocking to look at. It was frightening. It often caused Delilah’s breath to hitch in her throat, struggling to climb its way up the cavern and enter her lungs, as if she drew the very oxygen from the air with her mere presence. Everything had a way of angling toward her, as if emanating from the fire of her tresses. Like the Earth spun around her axis.  

    And so when she turned to Delilah, a smile lilting her stained lips, an innocent inquiry on them ( oh, but nothing sounded innocent from her mouth ), the woman in red could only comply. Lift herself from her settee. Fix her grip upon the silver zipper. Straighten the metal-toothed pathway. Pull. 

    The demon’s wings exploded from her exposed back in an inky conflagration, like plumes of smoke trembling under Delilah’s strokes. Her hands trailed the material of the fabric, roaming under the guise of smoothing. There was scarcely a roll or rumple to be found, and yet her fingers touches with hunger, light as a feather upon the opposite woman. Delilah had a ghostly way about her, and her touch was, thus, utterly ghoulish. Breath whispering over brutally colored silk. And then the tickling, warm flitter of flesh on flesh as she surreptitiously brushed Rowan’s bare shoulder. 

    As slowly as it had begun, its conclusion was abrupt – she stepped away with a single press of her heel, leaning back to appraise. 

   She was gunpowder and a knife’s lash. She was the acidic stench of blood mingling with the aroma of dewy belladonnas. She was everything, all at once, in full, dazzling color.

ROWAN —

Rowan 

ROWAN: HELL ON HEELS

ROWAN

ROWAN