Her smile cracks at the edges, drops of blood gathering on her eyelashes. She is the wilderness, she is magic itself, (she is damnation and the fall of men). Her feet barely touch the ground when she comes closer among the rustling leaves and bending of dying flowers.
When he dares to breathe deeper, he smells apples.
.
.
A witch lives in the forest, they said. A powerful, cruel witch whose eyes burn men alive. She had brought kingdoms down, reduced them to nothing more than ash and bone, and she had drunk their blood among screams of agony.
No one who had gone to the forest had come back, they said.
(Was he really fool enough not to believe them?)
.
.
Beneath the cruelty and rage he can see her beauty, but it's sharp as a knife. Black hair and pale eyes and skin lighter than the moon in the sky – she comes closer, the huntress of the night, and his blood freezes in his veins.
"Lancelot of the Lake," she says. Her hand moves to his face, the feel of her skin against his makes his knees buckle, coldness like snow seeping into his bones.
Her eyes are closed for what feels like eternity to him; it is as if she's drawing his essence from their touch – there is a crease between her brows as she concentrates, and by this point he must have completely forgotten what warmth feels like. (For all he knows, he muses, she can be doing exactly that – taking his soul for herself, preparing to cut out his heart and eat it whole; he didn't listen to the elders – he might as well pay the price.)
But then she withdraws and the warmth comes back as her eyes flicker golden. The loss of contact feels like a punch to the gut and he falls to his knees completely, head bowed and lips open in a silent cry.
"I am yours to command, my lady," he whispers, and it seems like the most obvious thing in the world – to pledge his allegiance to this woman, more powerful and fearless than any king he's ever known. His hand reaches for his sword to lie it at her feet, but she catches his wrist with her spiderlike fingers and pulls him back up.
"It's not your sword I require," she says in a voice rough yet sweet as honey, "as much as your heart."
And she kisses him, enveloping him in darkness and winter, drops of blood falling from her eyelashes onto his cheeks like red tears.
He kisses her back, drinks the sweetness from her mouth and smells apples.
Then, Lancelot remembers no more.