[She should stop him. He oversteps, to keep his hand so near her face, tracing her skin with so little distance between her temple and his fingertips that a part of her almost wished he would just close the distance and touch her skin properly. But how foolish would it be, to try and make him withdraw from her when the dryad had linked their hearts? Even if she banished this manifestation of his form, the mental vision of his body and face as she remembered...
He would still be there, inside of her, in so intimate a realm.
He would still be reminding her of what mockery she found in that clean, gaping wound. If it had been a burn, a slash... the eye could be excused. Just a wound. Collateral damage. But the prettiness of the removal not only marks it as the work of someone (no, a demon) that had managed to gain complete mastery over her for a precious moment in the heat of battle... but it marked her for the humiliation it was meant to be. The target had been her eye from the beginning, so that she might live on obviously crippled instead of granted the dignity of death.
So that she might seek revenge, have it, appearing before this demi-god bloodied and beautiful in her savagery... only to have the dryad be the next one to humiliate her, and take it away, leaving only this curse behind. But he asks her if she is the stalwart, the one who will struggle against a threat to her world and suddenly-
Hayame seizes his wrist, so that she might hold him there in the intensity of what remained of her gaze. (In the process, his fingertips do brush her skin.)]
There can be no end to the places I would go to return to my world.
[He speaks to a woman who had helped to enslave her own kind, all for the sake of trying to improve her own standing. To a woman who had struggled and fought and clawed to be recognized in a world stacked against her from birth. To a woman who knew saving her world would mean that at the end of the very day she returned... she would die. But all things (not worlds) do die. ... And that is where she wants to meet hers, the rest be damned.]
Now tell me your name. And if you are truly the god of war... Give me your blessing.
no subject
He would still be there, inside of her, in so intimate a realm.
He would still be reminding her of what mockery she found in that clean, gaping wound. If it had been a burn, a slash... the eye could be excused. Just a wound. Collateral damage. But the prettiness of the removal not only marks it as the work of someone (no, a demon) that had managed to gain complete mastery over her for a precious moment in the heat of battle... but it marked her for the humiliation it was meant to be. The target had been her eye from the beginning, so that she might live on obviously crippled instead of granted the dignity of death.
So that she might seek revenge, have it, appearing before this demi-god bloodied and beautiful in her savagery... only to have the dryad be the next one to humiliate her, and take it away, leaving only this curse behind. But he asks her if she is the stalwart, the one who will struggle against a threat to her world and suddenly-
Hayame seizes his wrist, so that she might hold him there in the intensity of what remained of her gaze. (In the process, his fingertips do brush her skin.)]
There can be no end to the places I would go to return to my world.
[He speaks to a woman who had helped to enslave her own kind, all for the sake of trying to improve her own standing. To a woman who had struggled and fought and clawed to be recognized in a world stacked against her from birth. To a woman who knew saving her world would mean that at the end of the very day she returned... she would die. But all things (not worlds) do die. ... And that is where she wants to meet hers, the rest be damned.]
Now tell me your name. And if you are truly the god of war... Give me your blessing.