( her mouth furls. by ravkan standards, paul belongs to the same carvings of saints that have defined her. gifted beyond the world's understanding. doomed to death. sold like a handcrafted trinket, false bones sprinkled across market stalls — a toe, a tooth. no part of them unused. no part of them treated as strictly medicinal: a cure for the world's ailing hope.
he can't possibly understand the weight of it, alina wants to say, until she thinks of the crysknife he handles like the fist of god itself — sacrificial blood drawn, in the ivory curve of shai-hulud's spent bones. the gift he would chisel from his skull as if it might bless her with the same strength, as if it's the natural course. his life, meant to defend her; his death, meant to serve her.
a frown furls across alina's mouth, all the same. she thinks of the darkling's skeleton, an imbued amplifier; thinks of the manner his death can only belong to her. thinks of the contract of loneliness it condemns her to, the cruelty of forcing her hand to end his destruction. the only obstruction from the spill of immediate rejection: paul's thumb pacifying her mouth, the instinctual part of her lips to accept him into her body, no matter where he enters. her cunt, her mouth, her mind, her bloodstream. it slips to her lower lip once they part around a breath, saliva-slick on her pink mouth. )
Love born from martyrdom never survives. You know that. Next time you want to offer me a gift, try flowers.
( a flare of sunlight behind her eyes, a glint of something golden and flashing — illuminated with too much emotion. )
You don't owe me, blood. You owed me the truth. ( a snagging at his wrist, loose — like a charm on a bracelet, dangling. a simple inscribed message: i forgive you. simple, easy to give — a mirrored reflection of his apology. ) It wasn't about Alia. Or ... the way you spoke, really. It was about the lies. The hiding. The secrets. Not knowing where I stood with you, or if I mattered. You saying this now — it helps. It's what I wanted from the start.
( a kiss, brushed to the mountains of his knuckles. it was about betrayal, she doesn't say. of wanting someone in the dark, while they spin shadows around you, a true face eclipsed by a prettier lie. )
So let’s stop trying to rewrite the past. We can write something else now. Something new.
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he can't possibly understand the weight of it, alina wants to say, until she thinks of the crysknife he handles like the fist of god itself — sacrificial blood drawn, in the ivory curve of shai-hulud's spent bones. the gift he would chisel from his skull as if it might bless her with the same strength, as if it's the natural course. his life, meant to defend her; his death, meant to serve her.
a frown furls across alina's mouth, all the same. she thinks of the darkling's skeleton, an imbued amplifier; thinks of the manner his death can only belong to her. thinks of the contract of loneliness it condemns her to, the cruelty of forcing her hand to end his destruction. the only obstruction from the spill of immediate rejection: paul's thumb pacifying her mouth, the instinctual part of her lips to accept him into her body, no matter where he enters. her cunt, her mouth, her mind, her bloodstream. it slips to her lower lip once they part around a breath, saliva-slick on her pink mouth. )
Love born from martyrdom never survives. You know that. Next time you want to offer me a gift, try flowers.
( a flare of sunlight behind her eyes, a glint of something golden and flashing — illuminated with too much emotion. )
You don't owe me, blood. You owed me the truth. ( a snagging at his wrist, loose — like a charm on a bracelet, dangling. a simple inscribed message: i forgive you. simple, easy to give — a mirrored reflection of his apology. ) It wasn't about Alia. Or ... the way you spoke, really. It was about the lies. The hiding. The secrets. Not knowing where I stood with you, or if I mattered. You saying this now — it helps. It's what I wanted from the start.
( a kiss, brushed to the mountains of his knuckles. it was about betrayal, she doesn't say. of wanting someone in the dark, while they spin shadows around you, a true face eclipsed by a prettier lie. )
So let’s stop trying to rewrite the past. We can write something else now. Something new.