— I have the patience of eternity

The mountains are as unrelenting as they appear to be from the safe distance of his sanctuary ( a hovel ). Rhys had come tailing the call for a challenge and had long begun to wonder why anyone sane of mind would ever want to suffer this place, let alone muster an army in it. He was desperate to return to the badlands, where the winter brought milder days and nights cold enough to justify nesting deeper within the den.

Instead, he's here, certain he's left a few frozen toes in the snow behind him, and with whiskers so solidified he could snap them in half.

Thoughts of returning home before daybreak became ones of finding temporarily shelter when he realized the storm was impassable. He can suffer the parching heat of the desert any day, but the mountains in midwinter are unpredictable, and he could just as easily fall off a cliff as he could into a bank of snow and freeze to death.

He shudders at the thought. Or, at the cold. It's difficult to tell anymore.

But as he ascends a small alcove, and the sound of wind and whirring snow is suddenly joined by that of rushing water, Rhys suddenly realizes that it's getting warmer.

Slowly, he meanders around the small stream—one that should be frozen, he's certain—and the waterfall that feeds it. As he nears, a small, glinting light from behind the cascade of water draws his attention. He slips between the gaps betwixt the rocks and falling spray, and a rush of warmth sweeps across his face.

Ahead of him, the grotto awaits in its ethereal quiescence, as if waiting to shelter weary passersby from the storm outside.

What an incredibly lucky man he is, indeed.

---

@Brighid ♔

the water is invigorating, if not a bit frigid. queen brighid steps from her bath, marbled fur clinging to her hips and breast as she treads into the warmth of the cavern just beyond the dazzling falls. the amaryllsian winter had left everything gleaming in white and while she absolutely adores her new kingdom, she was not keen on catching a chill from cleansing herself in near frozen pools.

she seats herself among the ancient vines and fronds, tongue lapping over the wet fur along her shoulder. the knitted moss blanket haphazardly drops around her feet as she revels in the afterglow of a moment of relaxation. her sore muscles have found themselves loosened, her jaw creaking in elation as the tension melts from her body. it is a rare moment of vulnerability from the ice queen that is over all too quickly as she hears movement just beyond the grotto's hidden, yawning mouth.

closed eyes snap open, lips curling ever so slightly as she peers over her shoulder, awaiting the appearance of whoever had stumbled among this shrouded piece of paradise. "it seems you've found my lair." this was a public place, after all, but brighid is not so kind as to share what she feels is hers.

especially when it just so happened to be her private chamber for the evening.

@Rhys @cala

BLUE MOON & ELECTRIC LIGHT, EVERYTHING IS SMOKE AND GHOSTS

art by drifty, code by javs

He expects everything. Rhys is a man of shadows and secrecy, a trade he could not ply if he did not anticipate the worst at every turn. He prepares himself for all manner of things with every corner he turns—an ambush, an animal, a slighted bystander. Even, in rare and fleeting moments, nothing at all. There is little else that can take Rhys Tollaire by surprise, but Amaryllis is full to the brim with them.

He doesn't expect the queen.

It seems you've found my lair.

Her voice is recognizable—how could it not be? Mere hours ago it was crooning battle from the mountaintop. Now, in the hushed empyrean of the grotto, @Brighid ♔ sounds as if she'd not just toppled a monarchy and claimed victory atop its ashes. Beautiful and violent and ambitious in ways Rhys could never hope to mimic.

When he turns the corner, he spots her among the near-unnatural growth of tangled vines and ferns. With the moon shrouded in the storm, there is only a dim light that trickles into the grotto, but it is enough to illuminate the small beads of dampness that clings to her pelt from her bath. It speckles her swirling, snowkissed fur like stars.

Thinking of moving your claim here? he muses quietly, his gaze reluctantly pulling from her and following the edge of the grotto. It's much warmer.

A silence follows him, hollow and tempered. As his hand follows the large, gnarled root of the tree he rests beside, it seems to come alive beneath his touch. It was as if this place was not meant to be owned, and that it would never let another try.

Hm, well, Rhys crinkles his nose, as if his question has already been answered. I've come to seek shelter from the storm, if you're agreeable to company—

His wolfish, crimson eyes flit to her, his mouth pulled into an easy grin.

—my Queen.

the empress or the moon?

a woman or a warrior?

queen brighid finds herself toeing the line of all extremes as she listens to the masculine voice just outside her chamber. the moss towel gathered at her feet is shifted aside as she presses her chin over her shoulder to really get a look at him, lashes casting heavy shadows over her porcelain cheeks.

leaned against the years old tree with smoke about his whiskers and a charm that is only fitting for practiced crooks and raconteurs, if brighid had her valuables on her, she would have clutched them tightly to her bare chest and held a little lipstick dagger between a white knuckled fist with a soft smile.

he's an easy listen despite her initial caution and the marbled queen finds her shoulders slowly sinking, the wounds creasing the folds of her neck hissing as the skin pulls away from itself. the queen hides a wince, daring herself not to put all of her weakness on display, ignoring the steaming rivulets of red she feels streaking down her back again.

I've come to seek shelter from the storm, if you're agreeable to company —my Queen.

ego is a dangerous thing, but after being nothing for so long, there's a spark illuminated in brighid that she refuses to snuff out.

today, a man with a gilded tongue and eyes like wine are enough to fuel the flame.

"i'm not opposed to sharing for an evening," brighid says after heartbeats of booming silence. the trickling of the falls and the small stream seem to echo around them. "what should we call our secret hideaway?" a damp tail motions to the space alongside her, sprinkled with water from her bath, though cozy all the same with layers of moss and vine. she does her best to amass to her full height, to blink away the weighted lines of exhaustion beneath her eyes.

a whisper, devious, a grin gone as quickly as its arrived: "it'll only be ours."

@Rhys

BLUE MOON & ELECTRIC LIGHT, EVERYTHING IS SMOKE AND GHOSTS

art by drifty, code by javs

Charm works on fool kings with heavy pockets.

And yet, it is easy to employ; it humors the coy and virtuous and, at worst, grates on the ego of those who think too highly of themselves. And ever the crook and raconteur, Rhys is already looking to see if there's anything lining Brighid's pockets under the guise of admiring her queenly countenance.

Nothing, of course, is there. For @Brighid ♔ is no fool.

And Rhys is far more nefarious than just a crook and raconteur.

From the distance, he barely notices the tinge of scarlet between glacial shoulders, but she moves with a purposeful slowness. He can no more suspect its borne of pain than of tiredness or relaxation. At the very least—she is wholly unafraid. And fear, surprisingly, he would have forgiven her for.

There is no time more dangerous than the raw, reeling moments after first ascending the throne to an empty kingdom, wounded and weary and so brutally alive.

Tonight, however, Rhys is in the business of making friendly. He has come to Amaryllis to further his ambition not by way of taking crowns or wives but by way of secrets. Offering company to the likes of a queen, even for these few hours in this sacred, ethereal place, is the very sort of thing that would put him in her good graces. And perhaps, when she is in need of someone clandestine and unattached, she'll think of him.

Business, as always, is at the roaring forefront of his mind.

Until—

I'm not opposed to sharing for an evening, she breathes, and he watches with agonizing slowness as she gestures to the spot beside her with, what should we call our secret hideaway?

Oh. Fuck.

A raconteur, a crook, and a bastard.

Rhys' jaws snap shut. His lips press into a firm, thin line. His paws betray any sense of hesitation, stepping forward and cutting the distance between them until he sits himself on those soft mosses. Just damp enough to notice, not nearly enough to care. Not when she encompasses the entire space around them—as if the very trees bend in her wake, and the stars dim in submission.

He doubts she ever needed a crown to command the room in such a manner.

But ambition looks good on a woman like her.

Her smile is as gone as it appears; brief and beautiful.

It'll only be ours, she whispers.

That is generous of you, Rhys purrs, but you should be wary of the company you keep.

He turns to face her, and he watches as the dim light dances in her eyes.

I am a very greedy man.

her invitation is heeded almost immediately. brighid shifts, only slightly, to make comfortable room for his muscled bulk. over the scent of fresh water and pine, she's greeted with the wild roguishness of his perfume; deep and earthly, just as masculine as dastardly. she is a woman of fine tastes, after all, and despite the bastard's humble landing, there is still much to appreciate.

there's a huff under her breath, equal parts scoff and laughter. if she were any less practiced, shrugged out of her queenly skin and noble teachings, she would have rolled her eyes. then again, doesn't she know that lesson well?

the company she keeps - she thinks to her teachings from her wooded homeland: do not be deceived or lead astray. do not wander or roam aimlessly to be lead away from the truth and into error and sin. to be misled is to be seduced and — as she sees her reflection in his rubellite gaze, she's reminded of the man of her past and that sinking feeling that had come with ...

a very greedy man.

the fire is stoked even further.

"hmm," brighid mrrs, a delicate sound that is all things feline. her whiskers tremble little butterfly kisses as she leans towards him, refusing to break the eye contact that is almost as sacred as the cavern they shelter in. "i may surprise you with a similar appetite." brighid's eyes nearly cross at her attempted closeness, hare like ears pinned high on her head. "bad company corrupts good morals and i-"

she pauses. she what?

"i have been far too well behaved lately." a sudden snap of too long fangs coming together teasingly with an audible click! as she cranes herself away slowly. "starved."

the queen preens momentarily, lathering a rigid tongue over a misplaced fur upon her chest. "what's your name?"

brighid thinks she could like this one.

@Rhys

BLUE MOON & ELECTRIC LIGHT, EVERYTHING IS SMOKE AND GHOSTS

art by drifty, code by javs

He's aware of her eyes on him.

It's a feeling he'll never tire of, but there's something unique about being beheld by a woman like her. Not just a queen, but one tempered by brutality and experience, who would have every right to laugh him out of this cave as she would to assail him the moment he ventured too close, lingered too long. Spun his slick words as if they were meant to shake her, but her resolve is far too unrelenting. And Rhys, for his part, is far too intrigued.

But then she's looking at him.

He wonders what it must be like to look at himself through her eyes. To know what she is thinking. To know the pace of her heart (is it steady? Or is it vociferous, as his?), to know the thoughts behind her eyes (for he can think of nothing but the suppleness of her hips and the alluring curl of her mouth).

She leans toward him, and it takes everything within him to maintain that air of cruel casualness that threatens to give way to the gnashing teeth of the dragon that he likes to think lingers beneath. If he were his father's son, he would have seen her as a conquest—something to be claimed or fought or fucked into submission. Ruined beyond comprehension.

But something tells him she would not allow such eloquence to be blighted by the hands of a mere man, and he is not so fool enough to attempt to try. Rhys has designs beyond conquering anything and everything he can wrest into his grip. She is not a conquest. She is an opportunity.

I may surprise you with a similar appetite.

She's so close, now, that he can feel the warm fan of her breath across his face. He wonders if she can hear his traitorous heart pounding in his chest?

Bad company corrupts good morals and I-

He raises a brow, achingly interested in what's lingering on the tip of her tongue. You—?

I have been far too well behaved lately. He swallows, suddenly. Starved.

Then, she's pulling away, and with her leaves an aching, empty chasm between them, bereft of her warmth, her smell, her very being. Suddenly, he is the one who is starving.

And here I was thinking you couldn't be anything less than flawless.

He makes no effort to hide how thick he is laying it on. She would be able to see every part of him he wanted her to. The shrewd, uncouth attempt of flattery just barely hiding the obvious inquiry of tit for tat just beneath.

An exchange of tongues, one way or another.

What's your name?

Rhys, he replies, his eyes watching every furl of fur undone by her tongue.

He does not want to conquer her, as too many men would. He wants her to need him. As any queen needs a tether to the dark bowels of the Game.

What's yours?

---

@Brighid ♔

And here I was thinking you couldn't be anything less than flawless.

oh, how she wishes that was true!

she wonders how he would react if he could see the imperfections wriggling beneath her flesh, the menace hidden just behind her fangs and the uncertainty of all things oozing from her pores. queen brighid was bred to be poised and elegant, meant to spin tales of grandeur on the very tips of her claws all the while surviving the harsh realities of life. she just so happened to be blessed with the form of a woman, supple and regal and all things pristine, but she had not been taught to survive against the lustful ache of man.

if she were weaker, brighid would have yearned to raise a paw and brush the soft, damp tips of her fingers over his chiseled jaw. she would swipe the dark locks of mane from his face. she would boast her power, kneel at his bedside in prayer and ask for forgiveness before her sin -

but she does not.

instead, she remains glacial as usual. practiced and poised with a well-meaning edge. (beneath it all, she is still a woman.)

brighid pauses in her grooming, her gaze flittering up to him once more. "i only ask that you do not tell anyone of my shortcomings," and then, his name. "rhys."

the marbled woman straightens then, pushing aside those wayward thoughts. as charming as he is, brighid thinks she can find a use for all things - suave crooks included. business as usual. "queen brighid." she offers her name with a curt dip of her head, ears briefly tucked back against her head politely. again, the wounds along her neck and shoulder sing, but she ignores it in favor of her company. there was a time and place for vulnerability.

he had already stumbled across her with her robes bundled at her feet, after all.

"where do you hail from, @Rhys? what are the chances that you could come and see the summit yourself?" loaded questions, all of them.

BLUE MOON & ELECTRIC LIGHT, EVERYTHING IS SMOKE AND GHOSTS

art by drifty, code by javs

For a man who has long believed crowns are flimsy and fleeting, and that the kings and queens who bore them are as pompous as they are enfeebled, he finds himself...doubting. Humbled, at least, to have never considered there are exceptions to what he once believed one of his most enduring rules. He has come to admire Scorpius, sure, as much as he is attempting to use him. The man is steeled, stalwart, wielding skepticism and trust interchangeably. Had Rhys not his name to protect him, he would be under far more scrutiny. Scorpius is ever the picture of a king his own father would want him to be. An illusion of power, with only victories to back his claim up until he loses.

But Brighid, she—

He hadn't realized it then, but he sees it now. Even the birds fall silent at her decrees, and the mountain bends to her command. Mortal, yes, as fallible and fearing as anyone else. But no mortal has ever come so close to being a living god—or, at least, playing the part. Rhys is certainly enraptured.

Rhys.

Rhys, Rhys, Rhys. He inhales sharply, replays it in her voice a thousand times. Yes, yes, yes.

He sees the twitch in her hand, subtle and small, and he almost dares her to do it. He wonders what it would feel like—if her touch would be as delicate and deft and infinite as he imagines it to be.

She is something to behold, wounds and all. And Rhys is a lesser man for wanting to run his tongue along those scars rather than to see them tended to, but it is an admission he does not voice aloud. Even with her damp and disrobed, Rhys is ever the outwardly gentleman, and his eyes stray not from her glacial stare.

Andal Oasis, for the time being, he replies, his sober tone betraying the war waging beneath, a quarrel between desire and control. Before that, nowhere of great importance.

He leans forward, cutting only enough distance to leave a breadth of space between them.

You are a queen, aren't you? he smiles, lifting a brow, employing a guileful spark in his eyes. You needn't ask where you can command. I will come.

He wonders, then, the parts they'll play. She the innocuous and well-intentioned queen, eager to lure another dutiful soldier into her ranks ( or her bed? his ego rears ), or does she see through his ruse down to the raw avarice beneath, a desire for power of his own not arising from rank or respect or passion but instead from dependence?

Give and take, give and take. An endless isochronism, an adamantine dance.

---

@Brighid ♔