aeneia: (Default)
a e n e i a . ([personal profile] aeneia) wrote in [community profile] nonsuch2015-12-18 01:01 pm

& open gen post iii.

OPEN POST ( III. )
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vindictam: (pic#8250696)

[personal profile] vindictam 2016-01-10 11:37 am (UTC)(link)
[ He comes to her with a knife.

He comes to her with an offering of blood on his hands. He comes to her with rich men screams embedded under his nails. There is seawater rinsed in the back of his tongue, salt-dry where he had washed his mouth out of the copper tang.

He comes to her on his knees because he knows he was always better on them. With promises of fealty that come only because in his saner moments knows it is because she is no fool and knows that he will not stop and whatever stands in his way will not be spared. He doesn't know subtle anymore.

What he knows is limited to this. Pendleton had slighted her, and he was going to kill the man anyway, for poisoning them both. But he takes a care, to keep the blade that he had done it with. Slick still with blood, dried now, save for the coating that was over him. He is death and rot, and he wears it well. They are his sincerest gifts, as makes his way up the steps to her. Emily is back now, wrapped up safe with Callista. But he had promised he would come back to her. He is nothing, nothing but a man of his word. Fools, when they burned him, made him beg and scream - that he was nothing but his word. Nothing but his devotion and his promises.

So of course he comes back to her, he said he would, of course he comes back to her awash in the muck of this city he has gutted his way through - because he said he would, and that is, if he was ever to be feared, it is not for his magic, his ruthlessness, it is because he is a man absolute to his word.

Finds where she is sitting high in the tower, and he drops the blade at her feet. Listening to it clatter on the ground, watching it from behind his mask. It too, is worn better than his skin. Ragged like he had dragged himself up out of the riverbed itself to be here now. Sodden with the storm. Aching in every limb. As he stands there swaying on his feet, he is more himself than he has been in months.

Waiting, waiting for her benediction, her blessing, he has know faith - how can any man when he has stared into the face of his God and knows that he does not care.

He doesn't need any of that.

What he has is better than black eyed princes and empty pitiless void. That whisper of rats and screams echoed back from under the depths.

He has her, and in her, he is complete.
]
Edited 2016-01-10 11:46 (UTC)
scinlae: (for you to see)

[personal profile] scinlae 2016-01-11 12:19 am (UTC)(link)
[ She knows he is coming, she feels it in the air. A creaking sound in her bones, the taste of brine on her tongue, soft whispers from the depths in her ears. He is coming, it tells her, true to his word he has returned. Done the deed, done away with the filth, with those sickly hands of men who thought themselves better. Men who saw the flesh of a woman instead of the hurricane underneath.

They had done much to earn their deaths, all of them. Surely they knew if their plot was exposed he would not stop, he would bathe himself in their blood. Surely they knew that she could see through their false pretenses of praise. Surely, surely, surely. It is why they had them both poisoned. What fools they were.

She waits for him high upon the tower, for she knows she needn't rush down to him upon the boats return. Yet still she watches from her perch, fingers curled around the dark sleeves of her dress, slightly damp from the ocean spray. It sinks into her skin, leaves behind whispers for a world she knows too well, the smell of rot and salt. Fond she is of it now, for it clings to Corvo like a cloak even in his cleaner hours. Rot and salt and the bitter copper of blood, the filth of the city itself and the blackness darker than black itself.

The sound of the blade hitting wooden floor turns her head from the window, metallic shine marred by dried blood. She steps to pick it up, gentle in her grip, brushing her fingers along it. The blood of rich men, of sneers and false pleasantries. It delights her to see it, smear the dried blood with her fingers, the knowledge that they had died painfully, violently. She barely notices the blade slice her finger, blood quick to rush through the wound. That hand instead raises as she reaches him, caressing the cool metal of his mask, decorating it with new streaks of red.

He has come back to her worn and bloody, murk of the river of the city itself clinging to his clothes. She thinks he could not be more of a beautiful sight.

Clutching the blade still she removes his mask, reverently putting it aside before returning focus to him. Corvo, her blade, her broken man, forever waiting at her alter for whatever scraps she will grant him. Only she grants him more than that, opens her ribs and beckons him inside, coils around him like a snake. She grants him much for he is hers, more than any others, more than the Outsider's. ]


Corvo.

[ Fingers dance across his skin, smearing her blood upon it. His cheek, his temple, his chin, his lips. She smiles at him, a gentle smile reserved for only two people within this city, shifting herself up and closer. ]

I knew you would return.

[ A kiss, a reward, an oddly chaste thing so rare in this dark and dangerous thing they have. ]