we are slaves to the sirens of the salty sea
Pride eludes her. She is not completely unaware of her own charms—she suspects that it is at least part of the reason that caught Ivar’s attention, along with her remarkable ability to consistently bear him children of the water—but she does not understand the fascination with it. In many ways, she has learned that it can be useful. Learned that she is able to get what she wants with a dip of her head, a curve of her lip, but the reasons why behind that have never sunk in. And, thus, she cannot truly feel her own vanity.
Just in the same way she cannot deem him monstrous or handsome.
He is only intriguing. Terrifying. Illusive.
(And it is enough. That is enough.)
He snaps at her and she is thrilled to find that her heart pounds for a moment at the order. She slowly lowers a delicate leg back down until it is planted firmly on the ground. “Okay,” she whispers, her voice silvery and light—not giving a hint toward the momentary fear that had flooded through her chest. “I will stay here.” She cannot tell if his order was truly to keep her moving forward or to keep her from fleeing, and she decides that it doesn’t matter. She would do neither for the moment. Not yet, at least.
At his question, she laughs. Soft and quiet, in the back of her throat, as she tips her head back to consider the stars that begin to swirl above them. She lowers her head and gives him a coy smile, her mercurial eyes nearly playful as she studies the shadows of him. “I would tell you that is impossible.”
A pause as her silvery tail flicks lightly against her hocks, drags against the mossy ground.
“I have no such grand imagination as to conjure something as yourself.”
