and we will live without the sun
there's ghosts in my house
and i can taste blood in my mouth
He deflates like a balloon; despite every effort to hide it, Freya can see it in the way his smile fades, and his gaze turns wary. She wonders if she's managed to strike a nerve, or if he's just now considering the fact that he has brought a complete stranger into his home without even bothering to get to know her first. Freya finds it amusing — the way kings and queens welcome newcomers with open arms, or drag them home as Alaric has done her, never knowing the monster they're inviting into their bed.
She doesn't think herself a monster in any true sense of the word, but Freya would not consider herself a saint either. She is vindictive, and she likes to win. She takes his sobering attitude as a win. But she doesn't want to deter him entirely; even in her indecision about her new king, she wants the opportunity to weasel under his skin — and sometimes, that means letting him think he's in control.
"Don't look so disappointed," she murmurs, her sharp tone fading into something that could quite easily be identified as being earnest. Her claws gripping the bark for balance, she meanders closer to where Alaric is trying all efforts — in her eyes — to seem casual when he has been struck with the hot iron.
Descending from her perch with a practiced grace, she sidles nearer, though she half wonders if he'll keep that wary look and back away from her. Hopefully her resetting the balance by coming to ground level will appeal to the masculine side of him. "I do hope you didn't plan on winning me over so easily after stripping me of my autonomy," she mentions, leaning quietly onto her haunches, a subdued version of herself. She searches the hardened lines of his face for symptoms of his understanding, his softening.
Her ears pivot forward, and her expression lacks the mockery she'd been wearing only minutes before. "I give you my freedom, my body, and my delightful witticisms —" the flash of a simper, trying to dispel the brunt of his tension, "— and still you ask what more I have for you." She pauses, her lips somewhat pursed and the ridges of her brow feigning a mixture of concern and confusion, as though she's been wounded by the nature of his demands.
"What about what you have to give me, Alaric? Or do these lands not practice equivalent exchange?" Freya quirks a brow, inquisitive, her head tilting ever so slightly as she watches him studiously. She suspects that she already knows the answer, but she wants to needle at his resolve — to find out just how much conviction he has for his beliefs. Does he care anything for what he's so thoughtlessly taken from her? A part of her wants to know, truly know, if he can even fathom the reality of the situation he's put her into. Freya supposes not; he is a man, and men almost always get their way. She has no disillusions about how the world works, but that doesn't mean she has to like it.
She doesn't think herself a monster in any true sense of the word, but Freya would not consider herself a saint either. She is vindictive, and she likes to win. She takes his sobering attitude as a win. But she doesn't want to deter him entirely; even in her indecision about her new king, she wants the opportunity to weasel under his skin — and sometimes, that means letting him think he's in control.
"Don't look so disappointed," she murmurs, her sharp tone fading into something that could quite easily be identified as being earnest. Her claws gripping the bark for balance, she meanders closer to where Alaric is trying all efforts — in her eyes — to seem casual when he has been struck with the hot iron.
Descending from her perch with a practiced grace, she sidles nearer, though she half wonders if he'll keep that wary look and back away from her. Hopefully her resetting the balance by coming to ground level will appeal to the masculine side of him. "I do hope you didn't plan on winning me over so easily after stripping me of my autonomy," she mentions, leaning quietly onto her haunches, a subdued version of herself. She searches the hardened lines of his face for symptoms of his understanding, his softening.
Her ears pivot forward, and her expression lacks the mockery she'd been wearing only minutes before. "I give you my freedom, my body, and my delightful witticisms —" the flash of a simper, trying to dispel the brunt of his tension, "— and still you ask what more I have for you." She pauses, her lips somewhat pursed and the ridges of her brow feigning a mixture of concern and confusion, as though she's been wounded by the nature of his demands.
"What about what you have to give me, Alaric? Or do these lands not practice equivalent exchange?" Freya quirks a brow, inquisitive, her head tilting ever so slightly as she watches him studiously. She suspects that she already knows the answer, but she wants to needle at his resolve — to find out just how much conviction he has for his beliefs. Does he care anything for what he's so thoughtlessly taken from her? A part of her wants to know, truly know, if he can even fathom the reality of the situation he's put her into. Freya supposes not; he is a man, and men almost always get their way. She has no disillusions about how the world works, but that doesn't mean she has to like it.
code by corvus
