[ The venerable prince so woefully captured - or was it the undefeated Sturmhond at last snared? How would Nikolai write that miserable tale with the pen in his hand? It doesn't matter, of course, for that is not where the pen presently lies, and it does not matter which name he prefers, nor which face. He could have been no one at all, if the Darkling preferred artless mediocrity, which he did not now, and never had. To leave the dashing prince dead, or to leave the devilish privateer dead, would have been no victory at all. It would have been a shameful waste, moreso.
So there has been no death, of either the heroic or the catastrophic sort, and when Nikolai wakes, it feels to the Darkling as if he has been waiting a solid year, feeling the weight of each day. A sweet indulgence, savoring each moment that way - so many of his days were little more than brute endurance, the prison of persisting, knowing there would be no end. But to this wait, this lapse of well-rewarded patience, there would be an end. He would be met with bright hazel eyes, and there would be nothing that is not his.
The voice that greets him is the tawdry arrogance to which he has become accustomed; there is fear beneath the bluster, as ever. To be alone, he thinks, is no idle observation made. The prince knows he is not alone, and may not ever be again, should his captor be of a mind to share his company. To possess it, as it were.
Rising, he meanders his way to the bed, heeding no sense of urgency. Gray eyes make a new account of his capture, noting again the same inventory of details he had already made himself familiar with, a smile stirring at the corners of his lips despite his habit of holding himself impassive. This victory is too exquisite, too singular a joy to keep smothered. Life is too short - for some, anyway - to not have a glimpse of it. ]
Neither one of us has ever had the patience for negotiations, have we? This is a bit more decisive. I would've thought you'd appreciate a forthright completion.
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timeasmymeasure
🖤
Date: 2021-09-02 05:44 am (UTC)So there has been no death, of either the heroic or the catastrophic sort, and when Nikolai wakes, it feels to the Darkling as if he has been waiting a solid year, feeling the weight of each day. A sweet indulgence, savoring each moment that way - so many of his days were little more than brute endurance, the prison of persisting, knowing there would be no end. But to this wait, this lapse of well-rewarded patience, there would be an end. He would be met with bright hazel eyes, and there would be nothing that is not his.
The voice that greets him is the tawdry arrogance to which he has become accustomed; there is fear beneath the bluster, as ever. To be alone, he thinks, is no idle observation made. The prince knows he is not alone, and may not ever be again, should his captor be of a mind to share his company. To possess it, as it were.
Rising, he meanders his way to the bed, heeding no sense of urgency. Gray eyes make a new account of his capture, noting again the same inventory of details he had already made himself familiar with, a smile stirring at the corners of his lips despite his habit of holding himself impassive. This victory is too exquisite, too singular a joy to keep smothered. Life is too short - for some, anyway - to not have a glimpse of it. ]
Neither one of us has ever had the patience for negotiations, have we? This is a bit more decisive. I would've thought you'd appreciate a forthright completion.