to keep you enthralled ❊ romeo { day one }
May 2, 2023 16:38:02 GMT -5
Post by d7f amber bosch 🌿 tris on May 2, 2023 16:38:02 GMT -5
The squelch of his rapier skewering Greer's throat is a song he has never heard before. There is a small, fleeting gasp for breath, her trembling fingers closing around his on the hilt of his sword, blood trickling out of her open mouth, pupils dilating in the dim light. He watches the girl perform one last vanishing act for the crowd, shifting from survivor to corpse before she even has the chance to process the fate Romeo has chosen so selfishly for her. A sudden thrust of his blade, and then.
He pulls away, removing steel from flesh, a hot spray of scarlet rising to meet his cheek. The warmth settles there until it starts to burn, an itch under the skin, but he does not wipe the filth of his actions away. Greer's body is thudding against the sand when he turns on his heel — when his dark eyes lift up to scan the crowd, and they are greeted by a shade of green that catches his gaze like a thief to treasure, emeralds longing to be stolen, hair spun from gold. For one adrenaline hazed, awestruck moment, he wonders if this might be the siren he has always wished to be spirited away by.
But then he blinks, and he comes to his senses once again. He is a murderer staring at a woman who has fathomed the exact crime he has committed — six times over, to be exact. If Romeo Wilder is a shark, then Cordelia Blake is a leviathan. Seven victors are perched in a neat line before him, all forced to watch shadows of themselves play out their same tragedy on repeat, but he feels no pull to tilt his head and regard any of them. Something warm and sticky has begun to pool beneath his bare feet, and yet he still stares forward, her grin a sharp and inviting thing. Switchblade hiding within the rose bouquet. If fate were kinder, he would spend the rest of his day pricking himself on all her thorns.
A door creaks open a distance behind him, the escape he slaughtered an innocent life for — and so briefly, so overwhelmingly, he makes a choice between approaching Cordelia or taking his leave of this place. Why do flies throw themselves into spiderwebs, he wonders? He knows. This is the kind of memory that inspires the music that lives within him, the find of fateful glance he could deceive himself into believing is a sign. Maybe all a calamity needs is another calamity. Maybe he is a sailor drifting by, and perhaps her purpose in his life will be to show him that sinking beneath the waves is better than fighting like this.
If ever she wishes to damn him, Romeo thinks, he will come to kneel at her altar willingly.
But then he shakes his head, dark curls falling away from his face, turning where he stands and facing the exit path that has revealed itself to him. All of this passes by in moments, in breaths, but even looking away from her his head starts to spin. His thoughts are a compass leading him to one singular ambition: home. He takes a step forward, but not before sparing one last glance over his shoulder, never once regarding the death rotting by his feet — and only focusing on a beauty he would like to immortalize behind his eyelids.
His eyes close, inhale flooding his lungs, the act of remembering a thing that hasn't even happened yet.
Her fight has come to an end.
He pulls away, removing steel from flesh, a hot spray of scarlet rising to meet his cheek. The warmth settles there until it starts to burn, an itch under the skin, but he does not wipe the filth of his actions away. Greer's body is thudding against the sand when he turns on his heel — when his dark eyes lift up to scan the crowd, and they are greeted by a shade of green that catches his gaze like a thief to treasure, emeralds longing to be stolen, hair spun from gold. For one adrenaline hazed, awestruck moment, he wonders if this might be the siren he has always wished to be spirited away by.
But then he blinks, and he comes to his senses once again. He is a murderer staring at a woman who has fathomed the exact crime he has committed — six times over, to be exact. If Romeo Wilder is a shark, then Cordelia Blake is a leviathan. Seven victors are perched in a neat line before him, all forced to watch shadows of themselves play out their same tragedy on repeat, but he feels no pull to tilt his head and regard any of them. Something warm and sticky has begun to pool beneath his bare feet, and yet he still stares forward, her grin a sharp and inviting thing. Switchblade hiding within the rose bouquet. If fate were kinder, he would spend the rest of his day pricking himself on all her thorns.
A door creaks open a distance behind him, the escape he slaughtered an innocent life for — and so briefly, so overwhelmingly, he makes a choice between approaching Cordelia or taking his leave of this place. Why do flies throw themselves into spiderwebs, he wonders? He knows. This is the kind of memory that inspires the music that lives within him, the find of fateful glance he could deceive himself into believing is a sign. Maybe all a calamity needs is another calamity. Maybe he is a sailor drifting by, and perhaps her purpose in his life will be to show him that sinking beneath the waves is better than fighting like this.
If ever she wishes to damn him, Romeo thinks, he will come to kneel at her altar willingly.
But then he shakes his head, dark curls falling away from his face, turning where he stands and facing the exit path that has revealed itself to him. All of this passes by in moments, in breaths, but even looking away from her his head starts to spin. His thoughts are a compass leading him to one singular ambition: home. He takes a step forward, but not before sparing one last glance over his shoulder, never once regarding the death rotting by his feet — and only focusing on a beauty he would like to immortalize behind his eyelids.
His eyes close, inhale flooding his lungs, the act of remembering a thing that hasn't even happened yet.
And then he charges into the unknown,
and all its dark promises.
and all its dark promises.
