#splcndiiid

And in those moments, Cheedo feels so at ease and has reason to keep her hope on the tip of her fingers.  

SEND ‘🔺’ + A COLOR FOR A COLOR BOARD OF OUR MUSES|| @splcndiiid - ROSE GOLD || accepting.

Dry your smoke-stung eyes So you can see the light You're staring at the sky Watching stars collide Watching stars collide

There is nothing in the desert and no man needs nothing. 

The Citadel is not what he had expected. From above, it seemed nothing more than a lonely mountain, wasting away, scraped knees and blisters, at the mercy of time. Khan had expected a simple conquest, a brief survey of the land-- perhaps a potential colony, at long last. Boots planted into the sand, and instead he observed the towering stone fortress, carved in flowers with the ever-present shimmer of vitality. Instead, he found half-lives, scorned by a dead planet, uncertain of the gift of water, and five queens. 

The choice is easy. It always is. 

Her surrender is beautiful in the way that ruinous things are. Swollen with child, glittering and fierce eyes, and a promise to him if only they might spare her people another lifetime of tyranny. Maybe it’s an ego that’s been allowed to rekindle itself, pain metamorphosing into pride. Either way, her self-sacrifice intrigues him, and his finger isn’t always on the trigger. The display of mercy isn’t foreign, but his people exalt him nonetheless: everything is another stepping stone. 

Already, under the grace of a mere six hours, she’s aboard his Vengeance, walking among the augments like she’s known them for centuries. The Splendid Angharad is a prisoner without shackles, without fear, and Khan sees something familiar inside of her that releases a quiver down the ridges of his vertebrae. He’s brought her to her quarters himself. He’s already sinking so low. 

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Pride offers itself through scars and blood and trophies that never quite mesh with marble walls and thrones of teeth. It offers itself to Khan in the way of festering wounds that sting in the lukewarm bathwater, creating a reddish tint to reflect in the light of the empty room. Silence mingles with pride and leaves him to battle the notion that his body will never grant him the memory of a scar– even the deep wounds that throb down his side will eventually heal entirely, leaving no trace to speak of.

That never stops the pain. 

When Angharad enters, he hardly notices. The ferocious and reptilian part of his brain is constantly aware, augmented senses a continuous companion, though he opts to deny paranoia for a brief while. They’re beyond the point of slitting throats in slumber– he supposes.

Intrigue blossoms through him, evident on that angular face, when she takes a hold of his hand and guides him out of the bath. Lips part long enough to inquire without words, though her only answer is that gentle, prideful smile that she beholds. Wordlessly, she begins to tend to his angry wounds, glistening with the water that otherwise drips down his form and unto the floor.  She’s graceful even then, despite the bulging belly that carries his child-- maybe that adds yet another layer that he can’t quite decipher. 

He says nothing, and lets her heal him.