She is back where she belongs, and she has never felt more free.

Melusina relishes the little things. The soft comfort of her own bed, the last fleeting warmth as the summer retreated to autumn, even gathering herbs seems a pleasant use of her time, something she once dreaded more than anything. Snow has not fallen here as it already has in Illyria, and its cruel reminder lives in the rattle of her lungs with every staggering breath. If she stands too fast, her heart races a little too fast. If she pushes too far, she grows a little dizzy.

She wonders if her father cares. If he would even know what he'd done to her—or if he was too busy laying awake at night wondering what it was she had to say, driving himself mad over the fact that she had said nothing at all.

A hiss breaks through the silence of the Brook as Melusina wrenches herself free from those thoughts. She's broken free of her imprisonment and returned to her home, and she has every reason to celebrate the relief from her plight except—except—

—for him.

Melusina sighs and hangs her head, the herbs she'd been plucking at falling from her limp fingers.

---

@Riven

sleep now in the fire
the cost of my desire

an autumnal breeze twists through the tangled thickets of vermada. an iciness radiates along the grey-tinged horizon, the promises of winter to come hissed across the desolate wilds. even for all the cold that would envelope the lands, riven feels the heat and the desire for violence rippling through his core. he feels disturbed, displaced, uneasy.

convoluted thoughts twists his subconcious - a dark matra, that pulses with fervent life. every edge of the winter soldier thus drips in darkness and wrath. he call feel the call to violence pulsating beneath his flesh; he can feel all that restlessness surging beneath his wiry flesh, the hungry violence twisting beneath the tightness of his skin, begging to break free. broken, vacant, devoid of emotion. lost in a country where no face feels familiar. riven is dead, dead, dead.

his memories are gone.

only darkness swelled within his frigid heart.

in its place, rose a creature devoid of empathy.

in its place, willed the face of an apathetic demon.

passing through the thick verdant foliage, his muscular frame shifts with ease. grey hairs peppers half the side of his angular visage, the age of him settling deep into his prime. he is older, stronger. the soldier's singular blue eye roams over the empty terrain, finally settling upon the lilac curvature of a lone female, as she passes through the shroud of autumn. he should feel intrigued by her presence, but riven doesn't. he inhales her fragrance, nonetheless, the scent of eucalyptus and sickness drifting towards him like an eerie caress.

closing the distance between them, riven would fix her down with a cold and icy stare. his gaze devours her form, and there is no gentleness in the way he looks at her.

"who the fuck are you?" his voice comes out all sharp and taunting, his tone edged in masculine carelessness as he throws her a pointed, feral look. she's a pretty face, with a delicate body. she looks fragile.

something easy to break.

@Melusina

She understands why her mother loved what she did. There is a certain serenity in the art of herb-gathering that even the most prickly and the most hateful could not deny. Eventually, she is able to tune out the most distressing of her thoughts, and accept that despite the fact Cassius lives within the hallowed halls of the Brook, Vermeda is still part hers. She remains, stubborn and doggedly loyal.

Dedicated, but unhappy.

Tolerant, but only just.

Who the fuck are you?

Melusina whirls around, her nose crinkled and brows furrowed to a frustrated crux. She is small, and sickly, and nothing of the broken girl she was a year ago. Melusina has been made and remade, and the ferocity in her eyes is one borne of tragedy and hate.

@Riven is handsome, the perfect picture of an infallible soldier. Age only seems to deepen his features, and instead of betraying any sort of weakness they serve to make him only that much more experienced, that much more dangerous. Melusina, by comparison, is everything untamed and wild and unrelenting.

She rises to her feet in a languid, fluid motion. She cuts the distance between them, but only rises to his chin. Her gaze cuts fiercely into the half-blinded, endless icy blue of his own. Her heart is racing furiously in her chest, and she is certain he can hear it, but she does not betray her impulsivity or her angry bravery.

Watch your tone, arschloch, she breathes, her lips curling into a frigid smile, Or I'll let you bleed out on the battlefield.

Break me.

sleep now in the fire
the cost of my desire

TRIGGER WARNING!

This content might touch on topics that are sensitive or triggering for some readers.
Trigger Warning for mentions of language, mature themes, violence

hungry, starved -- riven is feeling all the ways of venom and loathing, fueling his warrior' blood. a blind hatred bloomed beneath the core of him, surging forth with uncontrollable animosity. the mask he wears suddenly feels too thin, as its stretches their phantom flesh over the wolven features of his angular face. he radiates an icy feverishness, a twisted kind of hunger that took on many forms;

here, before the lilac face of this beautiful, slender maiden, there is no beauty to be seen, but her bold and unravelling fury, as the wrath ignites her angelic blood. she spits out what he can only assume as dirty profanities, and his lips curves upward into a devilish grin; licking his lips like a wolf would, before the body of a virginal lamb laid bare over the blood-splattered altar. the soldier and the maiden clash together in the poisoned silence between them -- her hateful tone, finally spewing into the air and spilling down his flesh like battery-acid. it should sting, it should invoke the chivalry within him. but it doesn't. riven feels dead, he feels empty. whatever he used to be, is long gone. buried in the snows of illyria.

the soldier nearly laughs out loud, instead, amused by her fiery disposition as the silence emanated from his muscular form, his patience wearily thinning the longer he stood here and soaked up her girlish divinity. bleed out on the battlefield? so what. he was made for the battlefield. "haha, right. and you are who now, little miss self-righteous? how about you fuck off, before i do something i regret." his breathing would collide against the suppleness of her delicate face; hot whiskey breath, and masculine rage oozing from every hard edge of him. he would not hold back his emotions any longer, the universe may feel the whole bitterness and hatred of riven.

while the gloaming of autumn's luster would settle into the yellow-flecked valley, igniting everything in a veil of fiery color, riven would hold the woman's gaze with a dangerous, winter-sharp intensity. he resists the urge to strike out and seize her by the chin - he would resist the urge to dig his nails into the bottom curve of her lips, make her bleed right here before him.

He's not full of shit. Most men who were buckled immediately, shirking under the ire of a girl who at least plays the part well. Instead, @Riven matches her fire—each stoking the rise of each other's flames. She need not worry about Illyrian winters when his face was colder than ice, and the shudder it sends through her almost causes her lungs to seize then and there. Instead, a rough, pneumonic exhale shivers through her chest.

Haha, right. And you are who now, little miss self-righteous? he nearly howls, How about you fuck off, before I do something I regret.

The heat of his breath fans across her nose and mouth, and despite the bite of animosity there is the smell of timber and winter. She watches the light dance in his eyes, the near-thoughtful way he considers her, pries her apart with his thorough eye. Ceaselessly long furls of crimson hair fall to either side of his face, half-concealing the mangled state of his missing eye.

You don't look like the sort of man who lives with regrets, she breathes, trailing her tongue along the top set of her teeth.

What would it have been like if he'd given into those impulses? If he grabbed her chin, would his touch be electrifying? Would she be enthralled by the pressure with which her presses his claw to her lips?

Instead, she reels back, and is surprised by the sudden lack of warmth at the distance, coming from a man who embodies ice and winter so well.

Melusina, she bows with elaborate, girlish flair, Happy now?

Vicariously, I live
while the whole world dies

his wintry gaze fixes her down, sharply -- an autumnal breeze delicately sweeps forth, descending her lilac curvature in a flourishing display of wilderness, of elegance. @Melusina breathed it as if it were mere air; weilding her beauty like a weapon.

for all the maiden's uncouth boorishness - as a hot-blooded man - he could not deny the soft allure of delicate, tantalising flesh; the curve of her lips drawn upward in a girlish taunt, both demeaning and strangely graceful. she'd thread the lines between innocence and devilry, her ethereal fragrance wrapping against his subconcious like a noose. he leans into the scent of her - it's something different, exotic, and he quietly decides he wants more.

dogged by greater, silent wrath, riven can feel the heat of his blood winding down his athletic frame, his frayed nerves and senses overstimulated by the lilac-haired maiden - by the surroundings that governed them. for awhile, he ignores the subtle fluttering cresents of those long-curved lashes, the way the light would dance against the lines of her visage, highlighting her creamy, celestial skin in a veil of sensuality. his volatile disposition lay twisting beneath its icy surface. a cold, brumal stare and nothing more, eating her alive with his stern masculine gaze; stripping her down to flesh, soul and bone.

finally, she pulls away before he can reach forward and seize her, drawing her body across the black earth like a delicate dancer. with a frigid silence, he studies her short performance, his blue eye sliding over the lines of her backside and the sultry arc of slender, feminine hips. she bows before him, finally giving him a name, and the sneer that darkens riven's features curls upward ever so slightly, masculine apathy on full display. "you're right. i don't live with regrets. i don't live for anything." his voice cuts the cool, balmy air. rugged, fierce, uncaring.

"melusina." riven repeats sharply, his tone, ice cold - feral. "you look like a woman who enjoys inviting danger into her life." an outspoken woman. a reckless woman. an emotional woman. his lips threatens to curl upward a trifle more, a hungry wolf bristling beneath the false mask of chivalry. he licks his lips thoughtfully, a dark tongue sweeping over inky obsidian; the lithe curve of his canines flashing outward from the gaping of boorish, heavy-set jaws. he takes a step closer towards the slender medic, his massive paws sweeping over the damp loams, his features twisting into shadowy ruin, still hunting her with his gaze.

do you enjoy that?

letting danger in?

She could've stayed soft. She could've stayed demure, and kind; she would have been the envy of many a medic. She could have recoiled at @Riven's word, bowed in his unrelenting wake. He was formidable and intense and encased in an impenetrable shield of ice. He was fire and winter wrapped into one, and Melusina wonders how on earth she can be both burned and frozen in his wake. She is fighting hard—too hard—to keep from cracking under the pressure.

She is still new to it: Her anger. It is still feral and uncouth and unsparing. But the longer she lets it linger the more she begins to temper it.

His stare is intense and unwavering, and Melusina fears that she might loose a breath too soon, that her eyes might slowly wander from his, that she may somehow be forced into submission. But then he speaks, and she reclaims that slipping sense of control.

You're right. I don't live with regrets, he drawls, with icy indifference. I don't live for anything.

A kindred spirit, perhaps; a woman scorned thrice over, and a man who has lost everything that was once his.

Melusina, he repeats coldly, and the hollow of her throat trembles as she swallows hard. You look like a woman who enjoys inviting danger into her life.

Melusina has no need to invite danger—it has always made itself welcome to her when it pleases. No matter how quiet, or how demure, or how fast and far she tries to run. Now, she turns and faces its gnashing teeth, enduring, surviving.

She would survive even Riven, who stalks her like the wolf does the lamb.

He prowls closer, and the glint of his teeth from beneath risen lips does not escape her notice. She cannot tell the intent behind his eyes but it is predatory, and Melusina cannot tell if her heart is hastening out of fear and instinct or anticipation. She might have turned and fled, let him see the agile and flexible way with which she could ensnare him with the confusion of the forest. But something deep within her compelled her to face him head-on, that he would not be satisfied chasing a rabbit through the woods.

So she remains still and resolute—no, she takes a step closer, she closes that distance between them.

Only if it gets you to say my name like that again, she whispers with coy, taunting smile.

Vicariously, I live
while the whole world dies

trigger warning: dark themes, disassociation, suggestive violence

the fragrance of @Melusina engulfs him - surrounds him. her saccharine signature wraps against the crimson flesh of his barbaric features. the leviathan feels saturated in her - drowned in her. spectral arms that wash against his toned male frame; the rocking heat of vice and sin, pouring outward from every gaping crevice and screaming mortal wound. her voice, when it finally comes, oozes outward like honey, too. its seductive venom settles deep into his veins, and he decides he likes that, too - he likes the way she sounds, the way she smells;

would she feel the same?

- taste the same?

he feels that first calls to violence surging deliciously within him. he is reminded of his hollowness, his wrath, his hunger. he is reminded of that empty void screaming within him. the darkness of riven pulsates outward like a beacon in the night. the wolf is salivating, now, fangs glistening in bloodied residue and aching to pierce her ethereal flesh.

he wants more than mere skin and bones, he wants her surrender. he wants her gasping for air, as he'd take his place above her like a dark messiah. those twisted thoughts lay churning within the disturbed heathen, seething, hungry for escape. he is barely holding on to his fractured mask - his borrowed facade of winter apathy, his second skin of stocism that hides the murderous man beneath.

as she draws forward, swan-like, graceful, lethal - and closes the distance between them - completely; it is like inhaling the soft petals of spring. it is like kissing the frost from withered, autumn leaves. her beauty is baffling, bewitching - how can a mortal woman appear so beautiful? - as riven stares back; like staring into the foggy abyss of a deep, silver lake. there is an icy fire burning behind her jade-green eyes, a hot, brazen heat. a female fearlessness, but delivered in the kind of softness that could break men, destroy kings.

"i could do more than whisper your name." sneers riven, devilishly, suggestively; leaning forward slightly, just enough to breathe a ragged hiss along the delicate curve of her ear. he slips a hand forward, reaching towards her face, gently pushing away a delicate lock of lilac hair. that moment of warmth gone, he steps to the side, feeling once again the chill of autumn's caress. o, it would be too easy -

to destroy her.

to devour her.

He is different from most men she's met.

They are violent, cunning creatures who want for nothing and make their displeasure of being deprived of it everyone's problem. She has been held and claimed by both stranger and family alike; paraded around as an object to be put on display, a sacrificial lamb waiting for the mercy of their slaughter.

He is predatory, as if he expects her to fight. He regards her in a way that demands the satisfaction of her opposition, so that his victory may feel more whole. She knows that feeling for she chases it, too—of conquering.

She hates being small. She hates having to look up into the faces of men. But there is a strange, unfamiliar curl of satisfaction from watching @Riven from below; from here, the wisps of his crimson mane appear as if they were kissed by fire. He is alight, and she is Icarus, desperate to rid herself of her waxen wings.

His sneer betrays his near-celestial presence.

I could do more than whisper your name.

A shiver claws up the reach of her spine as his mouth ghosts along the edge of her ear. Her jaws tense, and she peers at the side of his face from the narrowed corner of her eye. She feels the gentle, almost chaste trail of his claw as it pulls a single curl from her face, and she resists the urge to lean her cheek into his palm.

And then it is gone, and she swears she's suddenly twice as cold.

He could devour her. He could ruin her. Once he's earned the right.

Melusina wonders what it might be like to lose herself in submission. She is not so ignorant and unrealistic to think she would never lose; victory was never a certainty simply because she was the stubborn underdog. She was not afraid of loss, of bloodied fists and broken teeth. Would it be that much sweeter knowing she's earned every bit of his wrath? Every bit of his want?

Riven has age, and experience, and raw power. Melusina is defiant but she is quaking, and it is a battle she knows she will lose but the thrill of it entices her anyway. What must his teeth feel like against her skin?

No need to be gentle, she taunts, and digs her claws into the earth, herbs and easier things all but forgotten. I would not be here if I was breakable.

Vicariously, I live
while the whole world dies

trigger warning: dark themes, sexual themes,
disassociation, suggestive violence

he inhales her - breathes her in. she smells of sweet wilderness and wild femininity. he takes in her fragrance and wraps it against his mind. there are voices screaming in his head, thoughts louder than thunder as they loop, shudder and throb through his aching skull.

he imagines pounding his fists into the wall; he imagines tearing the flesh with his bare hands - of ripping bodies apart until they were two cleaved pieces of a whole. all this rage, all this supressed wrath and convoluted memories coursing through him; forcing the wolf to writhe and escape from beneath his skin. he feels wretched, out of place. he feels lost.

suddenly, the leviathan feels smouldering - he feels bothered; disturbed. suddenly she looks more like a dancing angel twirling just out of reach, than a bold woman who stands before him in all her taunting yet silent ferocity. @Melusina is both torture and salvation as he looks deep into those sea-foam eyes; her celestial wings, weighing down upon him with their meditative allure. he feels the chains snapping around him, the iron of his restraint flexing beneath the weight of their sins;

he feels something else, too.

something darker,

hungrier than violence.

it stirs with a famished wanting deep in his soul - it snarls and reaches desperately outward, as he feels the first bite of lust and wrath sinking their teeth into his swarthy flesh. what he does next takes even him by surprise. while he is tempted to claw her, to ravage her, violently, he is yearning for something else. riven suddenly reaches forward, reaches for melusina. snaking out a toned male arm to grab her by the delicate wrist.

it's firm - as his fingers digs into the flesh of her pale wrist. it's demanding, too, as the husky command leaves his mouth, a low and ragged whisper escaping his curved lips as he attempts to shelther her body within his arms; attempts to draw her smaller body against his muscled chest.

"show me." he all but growls out those two words, feeling her soft skin smoulder beneath his touch and surrendering to their softness - her softness. his fingers would threaten to slip downward, to fumble against the swirling lace of her barely-there gown; to grip for her thighs as he feels the suddenness of his hunger consuming him.

show me how unbreakable you are.