Chalk White [5/7]
anonymous
February 3 2010, 19:00:16 UTC
She stood very still, her eyes still fixed on his, refusing to look away from him. His lips curved in another smile.
“You were so small,” he mused. “So very, very small. You might as well have been a fairy, I think. If fairies had twigs in their hair and mud all over them- no, that’s probably what a fairy is. Dirt and all. You were just that little bit odd, after all. That- weird.” He tasted the word carefully, recalling that it was one of those old words that got twisted over time (not that the study of words was his specialty by any means but some things… you never forgot).
“You confused the hell out of the men too. That nice cloak, that torque you were wearing. But you couldn’t have been a chieftain’s child. You were always alone… and you were already older than any one of them. The men, I mean. Not that they would ever know.” He let out a puff of air, still studying her.
“But they liked you. In a way.” He grinned. “They figured that you had to be important to someone. Or useful some other way.” He slowly stood up and he noted that her green eyes had grown distant, as though fog had started to slowly creep across still waters, ice slowly grow across a pond.
His hand reached out and grazed against her cheek; her skin felt so very cold. He leaned in and inhaled the scent of her. Salt. It pressed against his tongue and his nostrils, stinging and pervasive and harsh. Stripping away water, leaving him with thirst that tickled at his throat like dry, gritty flames.
“Stop it,” she whispered. “Just- stop it.”
“You ran for it one night. Like a rabbit from a snare. But do you know what? Chasing you down had to be the most fun I had that entire century,” he murmured into her ear, voice rich and hissing with remembered satisfaction.
Wherever she was, he couldn’t reach her. But it didn’t stop him from almost tenderly kissing her cheek, tracing his lips along the curve of her ear, avoiding her sensible pearl stud earrings. Pearl studs. Like an office lady. How had she become this? Perhaps he could still smell the sickly sweet scent of mead on her skin, the alcohol working its way from her body.
“You still have that torque?” he inquired as he reached to undo the first button of her conservative blouse.
Her nostrils flared slightly in response, a flicker of simmering anger dancing in her eyes. The sight of the seething sparked a pleasant, tight ball of warmth in his stomach. England managed to grit out, “You took it.”
“Did I? Oh- I did. I don’t know what happened to it.” And it was not a whole lie. He had accumulated much in the way of treasure over the years and lost just as much.
She shoved him away, hard. Her hands curled into fists. “My mother gave me that,” she hissed.
While Denmark was physically stronger than she, he couldn’t help but be surprised at the force of the blow to his chest. He made a show of rubbing at the spots with a spare hand before reflecting that he really shouldn’t be surprised at all on the other hand.
England was shaking now, her pale face drawn tight. Her gaze had fixed on him but at the same time, she kept shifting, her eyes going back from whatever dark nightmare her memory had summoned to the present. She spoke, haltingly, “I faced a lot worse than you, Denmark. You don’t have- You don’t have any power over me.”
He then laughed and it was every bit the proper raucous, carrying sound. “Keep telling yourself that,” he replied. “If it makes it any better.” He let his eyes travel very deliberately along her face and downwards. She took a step backwards and it was like the first bolting of a hare to a dog.
He took a step forward, leaning in again. “You know what I could have let them do to you,” he said. “After I caught you and brought you back. And I might just have let them.” He exhaled sharply, the expelled air whistling through his teeth. “But at the same time… I don’t think I would have.” He was never good about sharing, after all.
“You were so small,” he mused. “So very, very small. You might as well have been a fairy, I think. If fairies had twigs in their hair and mud all over them- no, that’s probably what a fairy is. Dirt and all. You were just that little bit odd, after all. That- weird.” He tasted the word carefully, recalling that it was one of those old words that got twisted over time (not that the study of words was his specialty by any means but some things… you never forgot).
“You confused the hell out of the men too. That nice cloak, that torque you were wearing. But you couldn’t have been a chieftain’s child. You were always alone… and you were already older than any one of them. The men, I mean. Not that they would ever know.” He let out a puff of air, still studying her.
“But they liked you. In a way.” He grinned. “They figured that you had to be important to someone. Or useful some other way.” He slowly stood up and he noted that her green eyes had grown distant, as though fog had started to slowly creep across still waters, ice slowly grow across a pond.
His hand reached out and grazed against her cheek; her skin felt so very cold. He leaned in and inhaled the scent of her. Salt. It pressed against his tongue and his nostrils, stinging and pervasive and harsh. Stripping away water, leaving him with thirst that tickled at his throat like dry, gritty flames.
“Stop it,” she whispered. “Just- stop it.”
“You ran for it one night. Like a rabbit from a snare. But do you know what? Chasing you down had to be the most fun I had that entire century,” he murmured into her ear, voice rich and hissing with remembered satisfaction.
Wherever she was, he couldn’t reach her. But it didn’t stop him from almost tenderly kissing her cheek, tracing his lips along the curve of her ear, avoiding her sensible pearl stud earrings. Pearl studs. Like an office lady. How had she become this? Perhaps he could still smell the sickly sweet scent of mead on her skin, the alcohol working its way from her body.
“You still have that torque?” he inquired as he reached to undo the first button of her conservative blouse.
Her nostrils flared slightly in response, a flicker of simmering anger dancing in her eyes. The sight of the seething sparked a pleasant, tight ball of warmth in his stomach. England managed to grit out, “You took it.”
“Did I? Oh- I did. I don’t know what happened to it.” And it was not a whole lie. He had accumulated much in the way of treasure over the years and lost just as much.
She shoved him away, hard. Her hands curled into fists. “My mother gave me that,” she hissed.
While Denmark was physically stronger than she, he couldn’t help but be surprised at the force of the blow to his chest. He made a show of rubbing at the spots with a spare hand before reflecting that he really shouldn’t be surprised at all on the other hand.
England was shaking now, her pale face drawn tight. Her gaze had fixed on him but at the same time, she kept shifting, her eyes going back from whatever dark nightmare her memory had summoned to the present. She spoke, haltingly, “I faced a lot worse than you, Denmark. You don’t have- You don’t have any power over me.”
He then laughed and it was every bit the proper raucous, carrying sound. “Keep telling yourself that,” he replied. “If it makes it any better.” He let his eyes travel very deliberately along her face and downwards. She took a step backwards and it was like the first bolting of a hare to a dog.
He took a step forward, leaning in again. “You know what I could have let them do to you,” he said. “After I caught you and brought you back. And I might just have let them.” He exhaled sharply, the expelled air whistling through his teeth. “But at the same time… I don’t think I would have.” He was never good about sharing, after all.
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