Honestly I don't know what the fuck this is. I scrapped this together and…I don't know. This turned angsty-er than I wanted it to be and I'm not particularly in love with it.
at war with love
Her body was a masterpiece, and if he was a better artist, he'd paint the stories of all her scars.
He wasn't though—he didn't know any color aside from scarlet—so all he did was ask her questions:
"What is your worst scar?" he asked her, in the middle of a quiet dinner in his private dining hall.
"I was training a Legion," she answered, almost immediately. "It was young and insurgent, and I was young and inexperienced."
He tried to imagine what kind of a scar one of the diabolical creatures would have created. Legions were many orders larger than human beings, and he wondered where exactly the scar was. He tried to imagine, but it was difficult to place the marred past, even with her preferred lack of clothing.
There was still so much she covered up.
…
Her body was a machine, and if he was a better mechanic, he'd smooth all her worries with fresh grease.
He wasn't though—he didn't know any polish slicker than tears—so all he did was ask her questions:
"When did you stop caring about your skin?" he asked her, as his finger graced a raised and long-healed trail along her arm.
"I never cared about it in the first place," she replied, without hesitation. "I dedicate myself to the Crown, and there no room left for anything else."
He wondered when she began her dedication to royal blood. She never talked about any family or any past. She was just the Captain, and she seemed to want to always be just the Captain. He wondered how she had climbed up the ranks to stand where she was now, and if she was willing to climb any higher.
She said she had nothing but the Crown, but did she also mean him?
…
Her body was a library, and if he was a better writer, he'd create books about the tales of her sacrifices.
He wasn't though—and he didn't know words stronger than commands—so all he did was ask her questions:
"Who else knows about your injuries?" he asked her, after her report back to him about the army.
"Everyone knows I have them," she responded, not wasting a second. "They aren't uncommon in my field of work."
He remembered the last time she returned to the capital, limping on her right leg. She had comrades surrounding her and the army medic pleading her to rest. She refused all treatments and retreated directly to her room, locking the door. He remembered that she ignored all the concerned knocks, but that when he called her name late that night, she opened up to him right away.
There was so little distance—yet so much separation—between them.
…
Her body was her own, and if he was any better at loving, he'd might have had a chance to share it with her.
He wasn't though—and he didn't know her at all—so all he could do was ask her questions.
Questions that she always answered but never gave him what he wanted to hear.
"Why did you cut your hair?" he asked her, in the morning as she was dressing.
"I looked in the mirror and didn't like who I saw," she replied.
He watched her bend down to pick up her clothes from the ground, thrown onto the floor during desperate lovemaking the night before. He rather liked her hair short—he had only really met her after she chopped off her locks and to be honest, he didn't want to confuse a previous homeland with the one he had now.
Aside from that, he presumed that her shoulder-length hair wouldn't curtain her body from him like her longer more rogue hair would have.
But he learned quickly that she was quick with dressing herself anyway.
She was always quick to dress herself.
He thought that by letting her into his bed, she'd let him into her heart.
But he learned quickly that this would never be the case.
"You always turn the lights off," he said.
It wasn't a question, so she didn't give him an answer.
"Why do you always turn the lights off?" so he rephrased.
She took a beat longer to reply. "I don't want to taint your eyes," she admitted.
"What do you mean?"
"You shouldn't have to know the full consequences of your orders," she explained, her voice raising. The scarf—the one she was trying to wrap back around her neck—was shaky in her hands.
"Why not?"
"Because you're the king," she hissed, the word a curse on her tongue.
"You wouldn't do this if I were any other king sitting on this throne, would you?" he returned. "Why do you always protect me?"
Her eyes closed and her teeth were biting hard on her lip. She was about to shatter, and he suddenly wasn't sure if he was more upset seeing her real turmoil or seeing her fake disposition.
"I don't know!" she finally snapped. "Stop asking me questions!"
She stormed out of his chambers, and he was left with the thunder of her angry footsteps.
He looked back down at his soft hands—incapable of drawing, fixing, writing—without anything except the blood to rule.
…
Her mind was puzzle, and if he was better at finding solutions, he'd might have been able to help her put together the pieces.
He wasn't though—and he barely knew right from wrong—so all he could do was wait for an answer.
Brrr...I just read it again and I still don't know what I had been thinking. Let me know your thoughts!
thir13enth