She was beautiful, and he was the brother; it was comfortable, in an icy sort of way, and they fit into the story neatly, like they’d been crafted for it.
She was beautiful, and he was the brother, but he was the sword, too, and her fingers curled around him, his power adding to hers until it hummed beneath her skin. She wondered if he could hear it, the song of her power, wondered if it was something to be shared (she knew it wasn’t, knew it was something for her and her alone, and she reveled in that, the idea that kingdoms could rest in her palm).
“You are the fairest of them all,” he murmured against her throat like he’d been taught, and she could feel it, could feel his heart hammering away beneath his ribs, and her fingers danced across it, nails scraping the skin. Mine, she thought as a thin line of blood dotted his pale skin, mine.
“Do you ever miss it, sister?” he asked afterwards, “our home?”
A beat, while she thought of it, the cold that left marks, the drops of blood against the snow, the feeling of being helpless. A beat, while she straightened the crown. “Never,” she answered.
“Are you glad you have me?” he asked like a needy child, his eyes locked on hers.
And she thought of a childhood spent huddled under furs and making up stories where they were always the victors, of the heartbeat that had been hers for as long as she could remember. “Of course, dear brother,” she answered, “you’re my sword.”
She was beautiful, and he was the brother, and in this story, she would always be the victor.
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She was beautiful, and he was the brother; it was comfortable, in an icy sort of way, and they fit into the story neatly, like they’d been crafted for it.
She was beautiful, and he was the brother, but he was the sword, too, and her fingers curled around him, his power adding to hers until it hummed beneath her skin. She wondered if he could hear it, the song of her power, wondered if it was something to be shared (she knew it wasn’t, knew it was something for her and her alone, and she reveled in that, the idea that kingdoms could rest in her palm).
“You are the fairest of them all,” he murmured against her throat like he’d been taught, and she could feel it, could feel his heart hammering away beneath his ribs, and her fingers danced across it, nails scraping the skin. Mine, she thought as a thin line of blood dotted his pale skin, mine.
“Do you ever miss it, sister?” he asked afterwards, “our home?”
A beat, while she thought of it, the cold that left marks, the drops of blood against the snow, the feeling of being helpless. A beat, while she straightened the crown. “Never,” she answered.
“Are you glad you have me?” he asked like a needy child, his eyes locked on hers.
And she thought of a childhood spent huddled under furs and making up stories where they were always the victors, of the heartbeat that had been hers for as long as she could remember. “Of course, dear brother,” she answered, “you’re my sword.”
She was beautiful, and he was the brother, and in this story, she would always be the victor.