[ the pavlov association is working, and ish might not even be aware. not that he'd mind, but.
the thought and impulse, as strong as it is, slip easily from his mind as hwylryn begins to draw red ribbons upon himself. ish might find it beautiful in any other situation and while part of him still does (red is and will always be his favorite color), and while he's seen worse (cutting up a person into a fine tapestry to hang for all of the town to see), the fact that red begins to completely dye the silver he's been so taken with makes his own heart beat faster. in fear.
the commentary to hwylryn's tales and question are rote and not said with much care, but he does answer them. "Fire's too messy" he says with an air of dislike. "What did you like the most?" about certain places he's visited. he files all that information away for later, listening intently; not understanding gwawlyn one bit, but understanding the devotion all the same.
by the time the tales come to an end and the grass is more red than green, he's listening to hwylryn's heart more than anything else. he can sense how it beats now, sluggish. he can hear the way his lungs labor with every breath. he commits to memory every single ribbon on red, on his arms, on his thigh, on his chest.
his own heart aches and he moves without thinking, feeling the weight of his own magic on his skin as it flares to life in protest. he shouldn't be touching hwylryn right now. any contact he makes could influence the carnival, but he can't just do nothing.
he's never been able to sit back when someone he loves is in pain. carefully, oh so carefully, he gently takes hwylryn into his arms. even doing this makes his skin feel like it's on fire (there's not a trace of this outwardly, because this is his personal magic warring against itself) ]
Hwylryn, your heart— [ his physical heart, his spirtual heart, they're both injured and bruised. he can't do much, but. he dips down to the dip of red on hwylryn's chest, pushing fabric aside with his lips. there's too much red and though he can't do much, he can make this tiny patch white again. the touch of his tongue is gentle in spite of his not so patient laps.
he's never tasted blood before, but like all of hwylryn, he finds it intoxicatingly sweet. ]
cw; cont
the thought and impulse, as strong as it is, slip easily from his mind as hwylryn begins to draw red ribbons upon himself. ish might find it beautiful in any other situation and while part of him still does (red is and will always be his favorite color), and while he's seen worse (cutting up a person into a fine tapestry to hang for all of the town to see), the fact that red begins to completely dye the silver he's been so taken with makes his own heart beat faster. in fear.
the commentary to hwylryn's tales and question are rote and not said with much care, but he does answer them. "Fire's too messy" he says with an air of dislike. "What did you like the most?" about certain places he's visited. he files all that information away for later, listening intently; not understanding gwawlyn one bit, but understanding the devotion all the same.
by the time the tales come to an end and the grass is more red than green, he's listening to hwylryn's heart more than anything else. he can sense how it beats now, sluggish. he can hear the way his lungs labor with every breath. he commits to memory every single ribbon on red, on his arms, on his thigh, on his chest.
his own heart aches and he moves without thinking, feeling the weight of his own magic on his skin as it flares to life in protest. he shouldn't be touching hwylryn right now. any contact he makes could influence the carnival, but he can't just do nothing.
he's never been able to sit back when someone he loves is in pain. carefully, oh so carefully, he gently takes hwylryn into his arms. even doing this makes his skin feel like it's on fire (there's not a trace of this outwardly, because this is his personal magic warring against itself) ]
Hwylryn, your heart— [ his physical heart, his spirtual heart, they're both injured and bruised. he can't do much, but. he dips down to the dip of red on hwylryn's chest, pushing fabric aside with his lips. there's too much red and though he can't do much, he can make this tiny patch white again. the touch of his tongue is gentle in spite of his not so patient laps.
he's never tasted blood before, but like all of hwylryn, he finds it intoxicatingly sweet. ]