don't you ever tame your demons

fenris

(but always keep them on a leash)

Fenris had never seen much point in staying in Beqanna—even less so when the land had rumbled beneath his hooves and sucked the magic from his bones. For what? She had punished him for the sins of his fathers, and he wasn’t much for the symbolic nature of things. He had done nothing wrong, had done nothing but live a quiet existence on the outskirts of the land, and here he was—bearing the lashes. So he had done what he had assumed every self-respecting gentleman, of which he was not, would do: he left.

Once he had made it down the the mountain and felt the sand drip from his veins, he had sat there for a moment—dumbfounded—before he had metaphorically rolled up his sleeves, sighed, and turned his gaze toward the horizon. If Beqanna felt the need to place chains on him for wars he did not wage and blood he did not spill then he certainly wasn’t going to be kneeling at her feet and groveling for her forgiveness.

Of course, that did not explain why he found himself back here.

It was an unfortunate truth that he had simply not found much outside of Beqanna. There had been the occasional herd, the occasional home, and even the occasional distraction—but certainly nothing that manage to keep his interest. Nothing to anchor him to one spot. So he had rolled on, never staying long enough to put down roots and, eventually, finding himself back upon Beqanna’s shores. Unfortunately.

His mouth was grim as he walked into the forest, his veins dry with lack of magic and his mood darkening with every step. It was beyond him why he had though this was a good idea—why he would ever think this was a good idea—but it was also impossible to think of a reason to leave. There was nowhere else more interesting; he was damned if did, damned if he didn’t. There was no winning answer.

That was, until, he saw her. Blues and blacks and a constellations of white. It was enough to pique his interest, enough to halt his stride. He took a second, evaluating her, before he snorted and then angled his way toward her. There was nothing better to do. “There are things that go bump in the night,” he said, the hint of a smile outweighing the sharpness of his words. “Why would you venture out into them?” As the sky darkened above them, he took a step closer to her, perhaps too close although Fenris had never worried overmuch about things like propriety. “Why put yourself in danger’s path?”

 

don't you ever tame your demons

fenris

(but always keep them on a leash)

She is intriguing in a world that feels altogether plain.

His dark, unreadable eyes flicker as they study her, as they take in all of the dark lines of her slender frame, the constellations that splatter across her haunches in hues of cobalt and onyx. He laughs as she admits that she may be foolish and while the sound is dry, it is not cruel; he himself is not overly cruel. Do not mistake me—he is not kind. He is not made of flowers and poetry, does not whisper stars from their oceanic beds, but he does not delight in pain for the sake of it. An instrument, perhaps, but not one used needlessly.

“You do not look foolish,” he breathes, his voice bourbon, smooth with a bit of bite. “But such things are not always easily discernible.” A shrug, elegant for a man of his size, the motion rippling through his shoulder. She doesn't appear to be foolish—but he had met plenty of souls who at first glance seem wise and who later reveal themselves to be anything but. Still, he cannot help but hope she is different.

For a moment, his gaze moves to the stars as they light around her, their silvery aura casting a glow on the duo, providing just enough brightness for him to appraise her. His eyes sharpen beneath the cream of his forelock, finding her own and holding the gaze, scrutinizing her. At her next twist of words, he laughs yet again, although this lacks the rust. This laughter is all amusement, all enjoyment. So she has fire to her.

“Perhaps you are.” His tongue clicks against the back of his teeth. “Perhaps you are.”

When he steps closer, she flinches, just barely, and although he is not prone to altering his behavior to suit the needs of others, he frowns, pauses, and then places his foot down on the damp earth, stilling. His sharp gaze finds the wound on her neck, the newness of it, and the frown deepens, the stallion not bothering to hide his curiosity or the source of it. He returns to her eyes and holds it there for a moment.

“I am,” and he was. Once, he had been able to command elements with a lazy flick of the tail. He had brought sand from the earth to rain hell upon enemies; to chase them with its fury, to pour down their very throat until their bodies were swollen and splitting. He had no qualms about violence when it suited his needs, but still—the frown grew again, deeper between his brow. “But not in the way you appear to know.”

His voice is softer but not coddling as he motions toward her neck.

“I do not make a habit of marking up young women for sport.”

don't you ever tame your demons

fenris

(but always keep them on a leash)

“Foolish looks an awful lot like trust,” he says with a glint to his eyes, a rebel curve in one corner of his dark mouth. Trust was a dangerous weapon to wield, a spear that caused only self-inflicting harm. It never failed to amuse him to see how easily others put that hilt into the hands of strangers; it was foolish, it was absurd. They flipped the dagger over, gave up control, and then were surprised when they bled out.

But she—she does not seem foolish.

Without prompting, his dark eyes wander to the elegant curve of her neck, the graceful swath of color there, and he is surprised by the sharp pang of anger that flares briefly in his belly. For a moment, a frown crosses like a storm across his features, but it is just as quickly wiped away and replaced with something more neutral, something charming and shallow. She is not his to worry about. She is not his.

He shakes his head, dismissing her. “You are not foolish.” He is not sure how he knows or why he even cares, but it seems important enough of a point that he meets her gaze and holds it, something weighty in the grasp of it, something like gravity. “Perhaps you are just kind.” Now there is something sardonic in how his lips curl, something cynical, as he shrugs. “It is difficult for me to tell the difference sometimes.”

Perhaps there wasn't a difference. He couldn’t tell anymore.

The sound of her laughter breaks his thoughts, the slight tinkling of it, and his ears prick forward to catch it, to wrap around and through it. Her laugh moves as deftly through him as a needle though fabric, but he finds he does not mind the slight sting of it. “I like to bury the lead,” a sharpened statement, the sarcasm flickering in his voice, but that dies when her lips find his jaw, and he inhales quicker than before.

Without thinking, his head turns so his mouth can find her flesh, brushing against the curve of her cheek, the sweet taste of her permeating and settling into his senses. The intimacy of the moment surprises him and his eyes widen only a little before he wipes that clean. “Luster,” there is a husk when he speaks this time, when he sounds out her name. “Does it matter so much just how I am dangerous, Luster?”

He stares at her, suddenly thoughtful before his voice drops.

“It is not aimed at you. Is that not enough?”

don't you ever tame your demons

fenris

(but always keep them on a leash)

“That’s fair,” he offers, because he doesn’t know her—doesn’t really know this starlight girl who stands next to him in the shadows with bruises in her eyes and blood on her neck. He doesn’t know what makes her foolish, or trusting, or just kind, or if perhaps she is all three. It is not his problem, he reminds himself, but there is an inkling, the slightest pull in his belly, that tells him otherwise. He doesn’t need to worry about her or protect her—least of all from himself. And yet he stands, watches over her, dark eyes sharp, anger slowly simmering in his veins at whatever rough hands had handled her in the past.

He laughs a little, but only because it’s easier than raging. Only because he cannot control the sands that swirl beneath him, only because he cannot summon forth demons from the depths of the earth—he cannot pour his power down the throat of whichever devil let his teeth rip her flesh. A single shiver runs up the length of his broad back, and his dark jaw clenches at the thought. He would get too much pleasure from tearing the man apart. He could imagine drowning him in the sand, blinding him, filling his belly and lungs until they burst. The thoughts brought a cruel twist to his lip, but he quickly quelled the thoughts.

Instead he focuses his eyes on her, watches as she comes to him, as soft and trusting as a lamb. He shakes his handsome, angled head, taking a deep breath and then exhaling slowly, humor finding its way to his dark eyes. “You are foolish for trusting me,” and then deeper, “I am a truly terrible friend.” But that didn’t matter because she was there, and something swells sin him that he cannot name—something that he has no way of categorizing. Wordlessly he gathers her near to him, his neck reaching over her own and pulling her into his broad chest. His mouth wanders over her neck, wondering at the softness of her.

In the quiet, he breathes, “But I can try to be someone worth trusting for you.”

don't you ever tame your demons

fenris

(but always keep them on a leash)

She asks if he is okay, if he is alright, and he cannot stop the small laugh that steals away from him, the sound molten and silver in between them. “I’m not the one with a gouged neck,” he reminds her with an insensitive quirk of his lips, hoping humor would mask his internal fury. “I’m okay,” he finally reassures her, shaking his head and mane out. “Although whoever touched you may not be.” There is steel beneath the words, an edge that he hadn’t expected to show her, and he quickly pivots from the conversation. What happened between him and the monster who touched her wasn’t for her to worry about.

“This is incredibly foolish,” he confirms, his voice huskier than it had been before, his heart pounding in his chest. It is foolish to pretend he was something he wasn’t. It is foolish to hold her and let her think he could be her knight in shining armor, when he knows full well that he is nothing but a scoundrel. He is nothing but a loner, a wanderer, a vagabond. He cannot promise her anything else and yet, he holds her against him now, as if he could—as if has any right to make promises about tomorrow to her.

But before he can say anything else, steel himself to walk away, she is coming undone, and he feels the dampness of her cheek against him, the soft tremors that race through her. He closes his eyes, clenches his teeth, and scowls. This was not his strength—this was not where he excelled. She should be with someone wise, or kind, or, hell, even someone who was good. Not someone who has little morals to speak of, no roots whatsoever, and no interest in friendships or relationships of any kind. She deserves so much more.

Still, for reasons unknown to him, he stays.

He holds her as she comes undone, his mouth still tracing the length of her pretty neck, finding the colors of her endlessly fascinating. “No one has ever said that about me before,” he admits, a sentence that he had intended to turn into a jest but comes out surprisingly serious. The truth is that there was no one in his life to even say that—no one who knows him, who cares for him, who anchors him anywhere.

For the first time ever, the thought saddens him, his face falling until he pushes the idea away.

Focusing on her, he finally whispers into her neck, almost inaudibly.

“My name is Fenris, by the way.”