I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
He laughs when she snaps, when she flares her wings as if he could possibly ever be afraid of feathery appendages, as if he could fear at all. The sound is hollow and cutting, slicing across hit tongue and into the bitter air between them. “Your mouth will get you killed here,” is all he says, sooty ears pinning back against his skull. “Especially when you waltz into a land and talk to the prince with a peasant’s tongue.”
It is amusing, at best, and annoying, at worse, but at least the girl has some bite.
Bite but no manners.
Manners could be taught though. They could be wrenched from a mouth, knees broken until she kneeled. Bruise does not often like to take on projects, but he supposes, watching her, fury like magma rising in her, that he can make an exception. It has been a while since he has done charity work; it has been a while since he has bothered to try—to mold clay between experienced palms, working it into something new.
Casually, his fingers drum up the sides of the Fear, tasting the waters, testing her boundaries. Was Fear a companion she knew well? Was it a stranger she tried to ignore? He watches her with flat shark eyes, studying the lines of her, watching for a reaction, his mind reaching forward, eager for a drop of it. He pulls a little harder, weaving in and out of it, the needles clicking and flashing as he begins the tapestry.
Subtle though—easy. He just wants a fluttering of fear, the smallest taste of dread.
Terror can come later. Horror can be for dessert.
“You can talk to me and be grateful for it,” his voice is deadly calm, serrated along the edges. “My name is Bruise, Prince of Pangea.” He looks every inch of it, arrogant, powerful, his heavy horns a crown upon his skull. “We do not just accept every piece of trash that blows across our borders so if you want to have a chance of living here, you’ll learn to say please.” And then he pulls the Fear just a little harder.
