"Hypnotic"
Mar. 31st, 2008 01:24 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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writing_shadowsChangeling. A bit racy, but nothing NSFW.
Hypnotic.
The spiral of blood through honey.
Red colliding with gold, twisting themselves round, and all Aoife can feel is the touch of her lover's hands. She was disconnected from the pain blossoming in her ankle, the punishment for failing even in training. The sunburst scar will be with her for the rest of her life, but she schools her breath even and hides the hatred in her eyes as Iofiel, Lord of Blades, sinks the brand into her flesh again, and again, marking the spot.
His fingers grazed the blisters, and she screamed, but in her mind she was screaming with pleasure at the touch of Tierney's hand. She would not give her Lord the satisfaction of winning.
And she would never know she'd been betrayed.
Hypnotic.
The trail of water left in the wake of a tear.
It pools in her collarbone as she weeps for what was, what could have been. Racking sobs, she holds her head in her hands in this castle in Scotland. Nothing makes it better, nothing makes it less. She is claimed as no one's. The only body in her bed recently has hated her as much as loved her. And she's not good enough for anyone else.
Sokol has love, or thinks he does, in the heart of the ice swan. Arthur has the fire of young love with Reeva. She watches each of them around her and mourns anew for Tierney, for the Lord's son, for the simplicity of life as his blade and lover.
She has the pieces of a broken heart, and the sword.
Hypnotic.
The scent of flowers and incense.
The swish of fire red silk around her legs, and the hush of it sliding to the ground. The flash of skin, touched gold by the sun and with a faint glimmer to it. The veins of gold in her green eyes. The waves of hair, shimmering as they fall to her waist. They laughed and whispered late into the night, the tent on the edge of the field where she would fight come morning. Tierney's fingers gentle on the outline of the scar.
"You're mine," his murmur shivered through her skin and she did not, still could not, hear the implications in it. She thought himself her beloved, could not see as he saw that she was a pet, a toy, a tool. To be cast aside when he grew tired of her.
And he could not hear what his father, Iofiel did. The "if" implicit in the last.
And as his son lost himself in her, and she lost herself in the gifts that being with one of the Fairest gave, he wept his own tears.
He knew he'd been betrayed.
Hypnotic.
The touch of rain on skin hot with rage.
She stands in the courtyard again long after Victor's gone to bed, staring angrily into the sky. She wears nothing but the thin silk of a kimono, red and weighted with gold brocade. Dragons and the branches of fruit trees riot across it as it slips from her shoulder, but she doesn't care. Her tears mingle with the rain.
She holds her hand, cut on the Cliamh Solais, and bleeding. Staring at the blood, she sees nothing but the pain she feels. She can taste nothing but the copper burn of rage, so hot and forceful that she forgets herself in it. Standing in the Scottish rain that falls like ice from the sky, she shivers not with cold but with hatred.
For herself. For everyone who has never loved her. For never again feeling caresses full of adoration. For every time she has heard a lover's whisper through someone else's wall.
Hypnotic.
The sound of steel in flesh.
Tierney gasped his last and her eyes flew open. She saw Iofiel standing above him, she heard his name in her mind, the Lord of Blades.
And so the son learned that the betrayer becomes betrayed.
Hypnotic.
The spiral of blood through honey.
Red colliding with gold, twisting themselves round, and all Aoife can feel is the touch of her lover's hands. She was disconnected from the pain blossoming in her ankle, the punishment for failing even in training. The sunburst scar will be with her for the rest of her life, but she schools her breath even and hides the hatred in her eyes as Iofiel, Lord of Blades, sinks the brand into her flesh again, and again, marking the spot.
His fingers grazed the blisters, and she screamed, but in her mind she was screaming with pleasure at the touch of Tierney's hand. She would not give her Lord the satisfaction of winning.
And she would never know she'd been betrayed.
Hypnotic.
The trail of water left in the wake of a tear.
It pools in her collarbone as she weeps for what was, what could have been. Racking sobs, she holds her head in her hands in this castle in Scotland. Nothing makes it better, nothing makes it less. She is claimed as no one's. The only body in her bed recently has hated her as much as loved her. And she's not good enough for anyone else.
Sokol has love, or thinks he does, in the heart of the ice swan. Arthur has the fire of young love with Reeva. She watches each of them around her and mourns anew for Tierney, for the Lord's son, for the simplicity of life as his blade and lover.
She has the pieces of a broken heart, and the sword.
Hypnotic.
The scent of flowers and incense.
The swish of fire red silk around her legs, and the hush of it sliding to the ground. The flash of skin, touched gold by the sun and with a faint glimmer to it. The veins of gold in her green eyes. The waves of hair, shimmering as they fall to her waist. They laughed and whispered late into the night, the tent on the edge of the field where she would fight come morning. Tierney's fingers gentle on the outline of the scar.
"You're mine," his murmur shivered through her skin and she did not, still could not, hear the implications in it. She thought himself her beloved, could not see as he saw that she was a pet, a toy, a tool. To be cast aside when he grew tired of her.
And he could not hear what his father, Iofiel did. The "if" implicit in the last.
And as his son lost himself in her, and she lost herself in the gifts that being with one of the Fairest gave, he wept his own tears.
He knew he'd been betrayed.
Hypnotic.
The touch of rain on skin hot with rage.
She stands in the courtyard again long after Victor's gone to bed, staring angrily into the sky. She wears nothing but the thin silk of a kimono, red and weighted with gold brocade. Dragons and the branches of fruit trees riot across it as it slips from her shoulder, but she doesn't care. Her tears mingle with the rain.
She holds her hand, cut on the Cliamh Solais, and bleeding. Staring at the blood, she sees nothing but the pain she feels. She can taste nothing but the copper burn of rage, so hot and forceful that she forgets herself in it. Standing in the Scottish rain that falls like ice from the sky, she shivers not with cold but with hatred.
For herself. For everyone who has never loved her. For never again feeling caresses full of adoration. For every time she has heard a lover's whisper through someone else's wall.
Hypnotic.
The sound of steel in flesh.
Tierney gasped his last and her eyes flew open. She saw Iofiel standing above him, she heard his name in her mind, the Lord of Blades.
And so the son learned that the betrayer becomes betrayed.
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Date: 2008-03-31 03:34 pm (UTC)