— I'm not here looking for absolution —
It tires him to play with things like life and death, to tug on the strings that are meant only for gods and fates, but he does not mind the fatigue. He does not mind the way that his body groans beneath the strain or the faint shimmer of sweat along the curve of his neck. He prefers this—prefers the effort that it takes because it reminds him of its weight, of its importance. It is something to be relished and revered.
Not that he shows such exhaustion to her.
Before her, he still stands straight, his handsome face stern, impossibly dark eyes unmoving and his lips pressed together in thought. She comes out of the grip of his gift and he watches her shudder back into life, the feel of it dripping slowly back into her veins and bringing color back to her cheeks, her eyes.
She simpers despite the fact that she has only just escaped the end and he finds that he rather likes that—likes that she doesn’t cower before it but rather embraces it. Likes it enough that he doesn’t scoff at her question, her demand, and doesn’t grind his heel into her. Sighing, he gives into it and moves forward, acutely aware of the figure he cuts—the stars that live on him like so many of his father’s offspring.
When he is close enough, he cranes his neck and looks down, nothing softening on him.
“Is this close enough?” A pause as he considers. “Or do you require pressure on your throat to know?”
