( it's at least a little bit tempting to pull away. not because he doesn't like it. because he can't imagine how repulsive it must be to touch his face like this. it's repulsive to him, if the patches of torn feathers that've left scars and scabs are anything to go off of. for the most part, at least, his cheek feels normal. besides the feathers cresting over his cheekbones down the side of his face. the skin itself is smooth, pale, untouched. he used to wonder if he could pull all the feathers out if he'd maybe go back to looking normal, and that was a valiant effort for awhile... until... well.
let's not think about that.
anyway, he doesn't pull away. instead, he lets his eyes close and leans into her touch. he couldn't pull back if he wanted to, really. there just isn't any expressing how good it feels to feel touch again. )
He isn't weak. You just don't get it...
( clucking, malak turns and plucks at a feather by his eyebrow, feathers ruffling. julian sighs. )
Alright, alright—listen, I know what you're trying to say. But it isn't that simple. And even if it were, just to humor you... I— I couldn't go back to Vesuvia. I just... couldn't.
[morga snorts, and she reaches up with her free hand to give malak's chest tuft a quick scratch. good boy. tell him what's what. seriously, this is why she likes the little bugger. he's good at getting through to julian when words can't. it's a good talent to have.]
I'm not asking you to. I don't think I have it in me to return to the far south, myself. I'd be picking at an open wound if I did that. But...
[she sighs, stretching her fingers out to reach behind the curve of his jaw and into the feathers there. they're softer than some of the ones on his arms, and the skin underneath that much more. really, she's content to gently scratch him there for a moment as she thinks. asking him to return to vesuvia so soon is, like she said, out of the question. his family deserves to know he's alive and well (as well as he can be), but where could he go? the south was out of the question until morga got her shit together, but... hm.]
I seem to recall you telling me that Hjalle is rather nice this time of year. And something about spring across the water to the east.
( oh, that's nice. whether he realizes he's doing it or not (he doesn't really), julian cranes his head further into her hand, leaning in hard on those scratches, lips pulled back just a little. not in a wince, or at the very least not a pained one. kind of like a dog when it finds that perfect spot and just scratches without restraint. underneath all that, he's trembling a little, though. in spite of himself, he can't convince himself to just sit there, either. he's going to have to do something with those horrible talons of his. tentatively, one goes to morga's opposite shoulder. once upon a centuries ago, he's pretty sure he remembers her saying not to treat her like she's delicate, but the way he rests his hand there, minding his claws, she might as well be a statue of salt. )
Ah—mm. Now you want to see the world, hmm?
( hjalle. and spring water? oh. his shoulders jump with an utterly silent sound that should have been one of his laughs. it's enough to make malak take off, squawking, but only to light on a branch nearby. )
Hot springs, you mean. In... in... wherever it was I grew up. Somewhere in the east, that's right. I don't remember what those places are like anymore. It's all so faint. Can't even guess how long it's been. Do they even still exist? I'd hardly be much of a tour guide anymore. And besides, how can you expect to take a monster sightseeing? I'll just terrify everyone we come across. Still...
( his hand starts to slip away. he rethinks it and leaves it where it is, eyes peeling open. )
[a ghost of a smile appears on her face, and for a long moment she's... content? is that what this feeling is? no, not quite, but it's a taste. if she listens hard enough, she can hear traces of the old julian in his voice. once, she'd wanted nothing more than for him to shut up when they first started traveling. now? part of her actually misses wondering what would happen first; her ears freezing, or falling off because of his incessant chatter.]
As for terrifying people... You didn't let that stop you when you dragged me through your city on multiple occasions. I'm fairly certain I remember one man nearly pissing himself when he tried to rob you in that alleyway. And a few people in the palace when they'd find me in a room by myself. The room with that painting comes to mind, actually.
[the one she tore from the walls and subsequently dunked into the fireplace. her head lists towards the hand on her shoulder, not quite leaning on it but more of a silent request for it to stay. it sounds silly in her mind, but the weight brings... some small amount of comfort. emotions were a messy thing, but this? it keeps her grounded. and if she can feel those long talons through the leather and wools of her clothing, she doesn't mention it. jæger weighs more and he sits on her shoulder constantly, so it really doesn't bother her. and why should it?
he's here. he's alive. and that's what matters most, right?]
For the record, you're not as terrible as you think you look.
Hah... I remember that day in the alley. If I recall, you didn't much care for the little show I put on. Frankly, I think I could have taken it a step further. Grabbing his hand and sticking it in my knife wound wasn't enough to put the fear of heaven and hell in him. I should've had him pull a little something back out for his trouble, heh.
( does... that count as a laugh? kind of. he's not quite there, and the noise is more of a birdlike honk than a proper heh, but whatever dumb noise he's making has to be a step up from wallowing in his misery, guilt and self-doubt, right? sure, right.
at least he isn't taking his hand away. not when she drifts toward it in the same sort of way he's drifted to her touch in turn. look, he... mostly remembers. or thinks he does, maybe. names and faces would fade in and out, and the details of who they were and what they were like, too. there were days when he couldn't picture morga whatsoever, let alone recall her voice. then he'd see an illusion or have a nightmare and it'd all come flooding back in broken pieces. but he remembers... he remembers discovering hands-on that he wasn't the only one between them who missed touch. it was an enlightening moment, really. maybe that's what prompts him onward to putting his other hand on her side. he's one second away from just throwing his arms around her and hanging on, but he's sort of afraid he might not come back from that moment if he does it. )
You've only seen me on the ground. It's a lot worse when I'm upright. Which is why I mostly avoid it these days. Being upright, that is.
[god, she'd nearly forgotten that detail. were it not for his startling lack of self preservation, the event might've earned more than an ugly snort. in all her years she'd never met a self-proclaimed doctor care less about his own personal safety, trick or no trick. it's a wonder he survived as long as he did in the world with something like that following his heels like a stray puppy. now the mere memory earns a good, proper snort and a slow shake of the head. as she feels the weight of his hand against her side, she barely gives it a second glance. just a brief one to look, and... goodness. now she's starting to understand the misconception the people had.
cowards. making her think there was some truly vicious beast out here when it's just julian. they really had nothing to be afraid of.]
Shouldn't...
[she doesn't hesitate in getting to her feet. it's already telling that she can stand and keep his hands more or less on her (and hers on him) as she straightens up, but she needs to... no, wants to see this with her own eyes.]
Show me. You were the first man I'd met in a long time who happens to be taller than I am. I'd like to see how much that's changed and how far I'll have to reach now.
[sweet little monty may have taken after her in the looks department, but he definitely took after dear papa as far as height went.]
( he really doesn't have anyone but himself to blame for that one. if he didn't want it to happen, he shouldn't have said it. julian's lips pull back in a grimace as she stands, his fingers curling to grasp at her like he might pull her back down to the ground. he could, probably easily. more easily than he realizes, in fact. he truly doesn't know the extent of his own strength anymore, but it's a lot. it isn't enough that he's bigger and equipped with spines and fangs and claws, but that with all that size came an abundance of raw power he never quite had before. he could pull her down alright. he could throw her clear across the clearing one-handed if he wanted to.
of course he would never.
just like he would never pull like a barbarian, either. just grasp on, pathetically urging as if that'll accomplish anything. he knows it won't. once morga makes up her mind, that's that, it's done. so he's got no option but to drop the pleading look and sigh resignedly. )
Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you...
( technically, he has not quite seen himself upright. hasn't really looked in a mirror or anything. doesn't technically know what he looks like anymore beyond what he can see and feel of himself. but he knows it's a lot more imposing than it was. he often had to duck through certain doorways, but now he knows he's got to duck through all of them. he's broader, too. partly because of the wings that jut out a bit on either side, even when he's got them tucked close to his body. and— well. she'll see in a minute.
getting up is difficult for him, in fact. as was probably evident by his ungainly movements while she was stalking him, he hasn't quite figured out his body in a lot of ways. it takes a good couple of minutes before he is, at last, standing as "upright" as he can get. arranging his bent legs to support his weight and standing, keeping his balance with an involuntary beat of his wings that rustles up dirt and twigs and leaves from the forest floor—it's a process. even once he is standing, he can't quite straighten his neck or shoulders, although whether that's an effect of his long-practiced bad posture since he disappeared or because of the shape of his body now, it's hard to tell. either way, he's... quite imposing. quite imposing. somewhere past seven feet tall and hulking in a way that might even rival the good ol' scourge of the coliseum—not because of his musculature, although it seems there may be more of it (although that might just be because he isn't wearing anything; doesn't need to, the feathers do the job of decency for him these days), but because, again, of the shape of him, his silhouette, the almost menacing hunch he makes while standing. and the wings, those too. they're enormous, but they hang as useless as if they'd been taped to his back rather than the real, working appendages that they are. he wouldn't really know how to spread them out wide anyway. and he doesn't want to anyhow. why advertise even more what a horrible, unnatural monster he is?
no. instead he holds his arms out at his sides, palms up. once upon a time he was a sculpture model in a faraway land and something like this should have been fun, a chance to flirt—but he's long, long forgotten about that. now his stomach just roils with uneasy nausea, eyes averted. )
[to give him space, morga had initially taken a step back. probably a good idea too, because even one beat of his wings had enough force to send a dead leaf flying up to stick to the white, fluffy fur around her shoulders. even with his wings hanging loose and limp as they are now, they're impressive. jæger is absolutely going to turn green at this rate, and he'd only just started getting used to malak. as he steadies himself, morga walks a careful circle around him with an appraising look. slow, quiet, and methodical as if she were stalking him all over again. the only difference this time? she's not shy about touching now that she's seen it was a welcome thing.
slowly, she stretches a hand out to run along the 'arm' of one of his wings, letting her fingers run through the plumage near his shoulders first. then further down to the larger ones. some look to be even wider than her hand in some places, though she doesn't linger there for very long. the space between his shoulders is next. these ones were softer. shorter. almost downy in places, though how much of that was temporary... she didn't know. up to the curve of his shoulder... there were less here. more scabs and blood feathers. morga's expression softens behind him where she knows he can't see it, her touch lingering there for a moment longer than she means.
she takes care to avoid jostling the ones coming in, sliding her hand and herself around to follow the length of an arm, and when she reaches his hand? she slips hers into his without missing a beat. one doesn't need to be a psychic to know that positive attention is sorely needed here. and... hey, she has two hands. the other one picks up the slack. the back of her knuckles skim down the trail of feathers leading down his sternum, gaze following for a few scant seconds. and then both come back up, palm flattening over his heartbeat.
still as strong as ever. good.
when she finally, finally looks up, she has to crane her head to do it. something slips out - laughter or a scoff, maybe both. strange how julian seems to be staking a claim on a lot of firsts in her life.]
Hush. It's not that bad.
[the hand at his heart falls away, only for her to have to actually reach up to return it to the side of his face. she takes it a step further this time, touching the trail of feathers under his eyes. and even his nose, where they seem to be the softest and barely there, all the way up between his brows.]
...An old partner once asked me why I didn't give them the time of day anymore. I simply told them I found a better warrior. A little gangly like a fawn, but with the heart of a wolf, a pinch of Freya, and all of the cleverness that Huginn carries between his wings wrapped in one messy bundle. That this one knew how to challenge me. Even now, you're much easier on the eyes than they were.
( anxiously, he peers around his shoulder, under his bent arm, following her with his gaze as best he can while he's appraised all the way around. honestly, he doesn't know what to expect. morga's a blunt woman—not callous, necessarily, but she sure as hell speaks her mind. he knows she's not one for cruelty, and that she's got a good heart, and that if she's worried that his feelings are fragile right now, she might not be quite so forthcoming about how bad it really is, but... she wouldn't lie to his face. she wouldn't butter him up just to make him feel better just for the sake of that alone. it's not that bad is a fair enough statement. that doesn't imply that it isn't, in fact, bad. just that it's not that bad. something he guesses he can believe in, even if he doesn't necessarily agree.
maybe it just feels worse than it looks who knows.
what doesn't feel bad, anyway, is the touch of her hand in places he himself couldn't have ever hoped to reach. the soft feathers between his shoulders, the back of his arm, the longer feathers on his wings. he shivers once or twice, rustling but not fluffing up. by the time morga has come back to stand in front of him again, wouldn't you know it? could it be? there's a blush under all that birdskin and fluff! the way he bites his lip is probably familiar, too. )
Surely you're not talking about me... how on earth could you still feel that way after all this time? After seeing what I've become?
( as if he doesn't consistently cling to his feelings well after he should have let them go, himself. psh, please. he's twice as bad. his argument is weak at best, anyway. especially when he's finally doing what he told himself not to do for the sake of his emotional stability and putting both his arms around her. )
That—must've been one unfortunate-looking man you settled for, then. Tsk tsk. Treat yourself right for once, won't you?
[once, arms around her shoulders made her tense. for the longest time the only people she'd permit to touch her like that had been montag and lutz. it had been sort of a new development with julian, and one that she never had a chance to grow accustomed to. it's been months for her since she last felt this sort of touch. for him? perhaps longer. she wasn't a stranger to time flowing differently in the magical realm. what felt like days in the chariot's world only translated to mere hours in the real one. sometimes a day in the real world felt like mere minutes. who knows how it works with the devil's?
and before... well, he'd still been human the last time he'd touched her like this. it's a different sensation now. before his strength had been well-hidden. now, she can feel it radiating off of him just as easily as she can feel the heat of his body through layers of clothing. she can feel it under the weight of his hands, and for a moment all morga can do is stand there looking like someone hopelessly lost in the woods.
before her voice can even think about faltering, morga allows herself a moment of weakness. her arms snake under his own, one hand gripping the base of a wing and the other cinching tight around his back. her forehead goes against his chest, and she just... stays there. whether she wants to acknowledge it or not, it's something she needs. has needed. what did he say - treat yourself right? this counts.]
I am, you fool.
[if it came out muffled? well. don't judge her. don't even look at her. it's just all the fur around her cloak coming up to bunch around her face, that's all.]
You aren't. I'm bad luck. An ill omen. And I'm cursed. Damned. Just the Devil's plaything, not any sort of challenge that'll benefit you at all. I'm only going to drag you down.
( yada yada yada, he could go on and on about what a horrible awful piece of shit he is forever if you let him. at least that hasn't changed much, either. thing is, he stops on his own. or rather, he ignores himself. or whatever you want to call how he sounds like what he intends to do is push her away, but all he actually does is pull her in. hang on tighter. not too tight, he hopes, but for a moment he forgets about being careful, minding his horrible monstrous additions, sparing her the burden of him... all that shit.
he just hangs on like his life depends on it, shaking all over the tighter his arms squeeze around her shoulders, bowing his whole body down toward her. he's quite a bit too tall to put his face in her hair, but it has the alternative effect of essentially enveloping her entirely. like he could shield her from everything even now, whether there's danger around them or not, with or without the power to heal from any blow he might take. better still when his wings, of their own accord, flutter behind him and then stretch to enfold her in a cocoon of black feathers. )
I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left you. ...But I'm not sorry, either. I had to. And I'd do it again. I'd do anything to keep you safe.
[try as she might, she can't stop herself from laughing. she laughs and she tightens her hold on him, mindful of the feathers on his back. she can feel the flexing of muscles under her fingertips, the movement completely and utterly inhuman, but it doesn't bother her nearly as much as it ought to. then again, people always did say she had strange tastes in... just about everything. garb. food. drink. friends. men and women. the list goes on and on. the comments never bothered her though. if anything, she took it all in stride and laughed about it when she had been younger, and she laughs now because... it's all true, isn't it?]
That's one of the shittiest apologies I've ever heard, and I've both heard and told my fair share of them.
[but does she sound angry? no. no, tucked away and hidden under her rough voice is a sort of... fondness and relief. the grip on the base of his wing loosens, and her hand shifts over to settle in the space between his wings where she starts to idly stroke her fingers through his feathers and over his spine. just to reaffirm that he's still here. that he's real. to calm the trembling she can feel from his body. and maybe to indulge herself further. he said to treat herself, so that's what she's doing.]
Though I'd watch what you say about being an ill omen. Malak might take offense to it.
[plus it's not as if ravens were such an awful thing to begin with!]
( malak warbles over on his branch at the sound of his name, but elects to stay out of it. probably for the best with all the fussing they're doing. julian shaking like a leaf, his hands moving from place to place like he doesn't know where to settle them. it's exactly what he was worried about. that once he put his arms around her and started to have this moment, he wouldn't be able to control himself anymore. a hand-hold here and the odd touch there, that's different. but an embrace, warm and comforting and fond, is... god.
he just never thought he'd feel its like ever again. from anyone. ever.
it's all he can do not to cry. he's not really a crier around other people much, just by habit, but sometimes it can't be helped. he's an emotional guy. always was. and right now—well, for right now he just moves his hands from her arms to her back to the back of her head, never pausing long, like he just can't find the way to hold her that's enough. but of course he can't. nothing ever could be, could it? and look, his feathers are getting all ruffled again. literally. )
You're never going to be safe around me. Why would you want that? You're too smart to be this stupid. Too smart, and... strong, and graceful, a-and lovely, and...
If I was smart, I would've done things differently in my past. If you knew half of the things I did, I have no doubt that you'd call me a fool too.
[when his hand reaches the back of her head, morga tilts her head back into it. not a lot, but just enough to feel his talons press into her hair. see, this? it's not so different from the times jæger would sit on her shoulder and decide to turn his preening attention on her. the only difference is that julian does it with talons instead of a vicious, long beak like the eagle. still, it's... nice. shame his hands don't linger there for long, though.]
Though I'm questioning your judgement if you think I was ever safe before. You've seen the lands I come from. You've seen the remains of villages my clan picked clean like the swarm of beetles that we were. And you even witnessed it yourself when we'd be attacked by stragglers. I'm not sure if I'd know what safe is at my age, even if it came up to bite my face. So... I may be a fool, but trust me when I say I know what I'm doing.
It's different. The Devil isn't just a man with a spear in the woods. He's worse than that. Worse than the plague, even. Do you even have any idea what he put me through? And for how long? You think I just became—this overnight? And he owns me, Morga! I don't have the strength to fight him. I shudder to think what he could make me do.
( though, really, he never had to be made to do anything most of the time. all it took were the right words, the right mind games, all the most twisted plays in all the right places, and julian would succumb all on his own. he was hopeless alone, and he knew it. but what other option was there? better him than... anyone. it was the right thing to do. he'll never not believe that. )
For all we both know, my being here at all is just bait for the rest of you. There's no end to his depravity. You can't rule it out. You know you can't.
( and yet he's still hanging on, emotionally over-impassioned as ever. )
The plague wasn't his doing. That was... something else. I never managed to find the source of it, but I caught the stench in the palace on more than one occasion whenever those creatures were skulking about.
[which courtier it belonged to, she couldn't say. she'd never forget the stink of magic clinging to montag during those last few days. it wasn't the same sickly-sweet smell of death, but it came close. death, but wrong. to keep her mind off of it, morga lifts her head to look him in the eye as best she can and holds his gaze for a long minute. there was so much she wants to ask, yet... she doesn't know if she can. or if she dares.
finally, she closes her eyes and inhales. he stinks, but... there's nothing out of the ordinary. dirt, sweat, blood... and underneath it, something that's still distinctly julian. she can sense something else, too, but it's faint and buried. whatever it is, it doesn't worry her. it's still him. she's certain and willing to bet on it.
it's with some reluctance that she removes her arm from around his back, but it's for a good reason. she reaches up again to touch his face, and for the first time her brows knit together.]
Tell me how long he had you, Julian. Or... how long you think he did. For us, it's only been a few months.
( julian's mouth opens and closes. she... doesn't know where the plague came from? oh, god. it wasn't common knowledge, obviously, but he had always just sort of assumed she knew. why else would she have such a bone to pick with lucio? ...well. besides the ten thousand other things the little bastard did wrong. but that was a big one. he'd told the others, but they must not have...
he's not so sure he wants to tell her right now, anyway. what the hanged man told him and what he planned to do about it. what someone beat him to doing about it, even. frowning, he just closes his mouth again. between those two subjects, hell, he'll take the latter. it's easy to talk about his own suffering. it's easy to shit-talk lucio, too, even to his mother's face, but maybe not so much in the vein of "your son is responsible for everything wrong with the world, kinda." he'll get to that later. )
I honestly couldn't tell you. The seconds felt like years. The years felt like minutes. There wasn't any clear passage of time there. No day or night, no continuity. I'd go to sleep in one place and wake up in another. And this transformation... that started after ages and ages of struggling. Only once I accepted my place and stopped trying to fight it.
( his wings have settled, by now, to droop limply behind him as ever. they're a mess of scraggly feathers on the undersides, but he couldn't reach them to groom them without knowing how to move them and wouldn't want to even if he could. at least he isn't grabbing anymore. his arms remained draped around her shoulders, his eye contact faltering at times, but returning before long. )
It was more than months. More than years. But how long... long enough for it not to matter anymore, that's all I know.
[she could write several sagas detailing the shit her son (and by extension herself) did wrong, but that's neither here nor there. it's easier to focus on stroking his cheek and smoothing his feathers flush against skin, and easier to just kind of. look at him. look, listen, and just... be here. there's time to walk the past later, but not now. definitely not now.
what she wants to do now is... gods, morga doesn't know. on one hand, she wants to keep him right here. keep holding him as best she can. give him the comfort and support she'd never been able to give her own flesh and blood. on the other? she wants to track the devil down and take her two pounds. one for montag, and the other for julian. she's tired of losing people, you know? all her life she was meant to protect her clan. her family. those she cared for. and in the end, she failed each time, only to be left with ash, bones, and memories.
she wants to make up for past mistakes. so, while it's a small hit to her pride, morga stands up on her toes to properly throw both arms around the back of julian's neck and tugs him down to her level. hell, why not take it a step further and bury her fingers into the feathers on his head? it's not the same as hair, but it's close enough.]
I've said it before and I'll say it again. He's a goddamn coward, and you can't change my mind about that.
[what point is there in tormenting an already broken man? make that three pounds of flesh. you hear that, devil? she's gunning for your goat ass. maybe she'll even turn those horns into a coat rack.]
( oh my. well. he hasn't bent like that in a good long while. his back cricks like the old man he isn't (or is, depending on how you choose to interpret the inconclusive passage of time), but he'll take the momentary discomfort in exchange for getting to be the one to hide his face for a change. his arms slide to the small of her back, encircling both to continue the embrace and for balance, and he plants his feathery face right into the crook of her neck. or as much of it as the furs let him get to, at any rate. )
Darling, I can't disagree with you. He doesn't fight fairly in any sense of the word. Believe me, I tried. I tried everything. I tried traps and tricks, I tried brute force, I tried a duel... I even tried magic.
( oh yeah. he can do magic. )
It isn't a matter of being unable to overpower him. It's that he... manipulates you. With his words. With his illusions. By playing on your fears, your innermost weaknesses, your self-doubt. He may not be the root of all evil, but certainly fertilizes it. I'm not the first he's done it to. The realm is full of poor dumb bastards like me.
[she shakes her head, but it's to... everything. it's not quite denial, and somehow that makes the pill that much harder to swallow. he's right and morga knows it, she just doesn't want to think about what that all means. but sometimes the more you try to avoid doing something, the more it happens. so, she does the only thing that comes to mind and that... may or may not involve turning to bury her head into the crook of his neck in return. the feathers she finds there seem softer than they did when she first touched them, but she's not going to complain about that. that'd be a silly thing to do.]
...You know, I don't even think he realized I was there that night. It was probably for the best that he didn't for a number of reasons, but I would've liked to have seen his face.
[a short, dry bark of laughter into his neck and morga cinches her arms tighter. it's a moment of weakness, but one she'll allow herself just this once.]
Can you imagine what he'd have looked like if he knew you managed to coax me from the forest for his godsdamned birthday party? If he'd seen...
[them. together. sure, she'd mostly stuck to the outside edges of the room or far away from the crowds, but she couldn't deny there was a sort of thrill to standing in a far off corner murmuring all sorts of nonsense and empty threats about disappearing into the gardens if one more frilly loud-mouth stabs their elbow into her kidneys... that night, she'd been all raised hackles, bark, but no teeth to show for it.]
( the rise and fall of lucio in the devil's realm isn't even the stuff of legends. it's a sad, pathetic story. and the thing about that, too, is that it's the same story as nearly everyone else there. they're all sad, pathetic stories. because they're sad, pathetic people who dared to bite off more than they could chew and bet more than they had to their name, all for a prayer of a chance at salvation. lucio tried to save himself, or so julian presumes; he tried to save everyone else, himself. and they both failed. and it's not special. because everyone there is a failure. sad, but true.
still. a lot of the masquerade is a blur to him now, swallowed up in the dismal memory of how colossally he failed to protect the most precious people in his life, where he ruminated on it for what feels like tens of thousands of years. but at her mention, he remembers morga coming to the party. her rough-hewn mask and no gown. her practically palpable frustration with the festivities. and how badly he'd wanted to coax her onto the floor at least one dance, just one, but never got the chance before... well. in spite of himself, julian manages a rough, gravelly laugh too. )
Oh, he would have been furious. I can't tell you how many of his advances I had to shrug off the entire time we knew each other. Once or twice I had to quite literally fight him off, he was so goddamn persistent. And just repulsive. He didn't inherit any of your charm. None whatsoever.
( ok, that's not true and he knows it's not true. and he knows this because there were times... plenty of times... lots of times, when he came just a little too damn close to falling into those repugnant arms of lucio's just by virtue of him saying the right thing at the right time (ie when his self-respect was already at its lowest and he didn't think he could do any better). charm? yeah, he had that. and looks, too. but it's a lot easier to talk shit than to admit anything like that to morga, so fuck it. )
It would've been worth it to rub it in his face. On his birthday. When he couldn't do a thing about it.
He'd either have to deal with it or out himself as the son of a barbarian. Though considering how many people tried to earn my affections the first time you left me to my own devices, I can't help but wonder if that'd earn him more attention.
[seriously, what was wrong with northerners? if looks could kill, at least ten people would've dropped to the floor that night simply because they didn't understand the concept of personal space. and while morga couldn't deny that there were quite a few pretty little doves and crows flocking around her, she simply didn't have any interest. there had been a reason why she'd pulled julian aside in one of the rooms, and that maaaaaay have been it. not that she'd openly fess up about that. or admit that she'd felt like a cornered animal on one occasion. you can take the woman out of the wilds, they say.]
But... being persistent can be charming in its own right, so... I suppose he inherited that from me. The rest of it? That'd be his father.
[except lutz had been incredibly charming too, in his own way. his heart was never involved in the clan like her own was, but perhaps that was for the better - something to balance the scales, otherwise things may have fallen apart sooner. morga may have crumpled under the weight if there hadn't been someone to take over while she left to act as its protector.]
Though now I'm a little curious... How would you have done it? Something subtle? Or more straight-forward?
( a knowing little smile works itself across julian's lips and away again, and it just so happens that julian raises his head from morga's neck to look at her when he does it. you could almost blink and miss it, but it's there. and he isn't going to explain it, at least not right now, but he knew lucio was far from the polished palace "prince" he claimed to be. next to nobody in all of vesuvia could've ever guessed, but he knew. they met on the battlefield. he knows.
instead, she's free to believe the smile has something to do with her question, instead. or maybe the comment about persistence being charming. or both. whichever. then he's just plain smirking, looking every bit the cad he could be at times when he wasn't covered in feathers. hey, at least his intense emotional distress has passed (for a minute)? )
Subtle? You're asking me if I would have been subtle? And I thought I was the one with memory problems. I don't know the meaning of the word. Never did. No—I would have made it a moment to remember. Not a spectacle, ( yes, an absolute spectacle ) but an undeniable moment in history. That is...
( his head tilts, and he takes a hand from her back to gesture dramatically. the effect works wonders, really. maybe even better than it ever did with his gloves and the cape and theatrical outfit he wore. the feathers, his broad size, the way his wings flutter behind him, it all accomplishes the same thing or more. )
I would have asked you to dance. Not a simple two-step, either. A waltz. A fast one. And we would have made up our own steps. Right in the very center where nobody could miss us. Across the floor, onto the tables, up the steps and back down again. But we'd be about this close the entire time, of course. Maybe even... closer.
I'd expect you to drag me out there without warning after asking.
[she's already leaning back to look at him, flourish and all. once, she thought it gaudy — scratch that, she still does. only it's a sort of gaudy that she doesn't seem to mind. he could cut an imposing figure when he wanted to in the past, and she's pleased to see that this form makes no difference. hell, he's even able to command her attention which is no small feat in itself.
with a shake of her head and and a barely-there smile gracing her lips, morga buries her hand into the ruff of feathers in the crook of his neck. still soft? still soft. at least the ones underneath the first layer.]
You'd also wind up having your feet stepped on more than anything else. The last time I've done any sort of "proper" dancing was the night of my wedding, and it wasn't a... you said a waltz?
[that was definitely something she'd never done before. there had been so much going on that night that she couldn't tell a foxtrot from a tango, let alone a waltz. nor had she seen one until then, too. she was more accustomed to the occasional dance that would break out in bars with crowded tables. something less... civilized in high society's eyes.]
I figured you'd say that, and that's exactly why we'd make up our own steps and improvise. You don't need to be proper if you're having a good time! It's a waltz by a stretch of the imagination only, you see. Would you like me to... ah.
( forgot himself for just a brief moment there. amazing, isn't it? all that time in hell, suffering, tormented by guilt and pain and misery and humiliation, and for just a second in time he'd forgotten about all his problems. like thinking back to the likes of the masquerade before it all went awry transported him back in time. back to when he still had life in his eyes, knew how to have fun, and, well, could dance a "fast, improvised waltz."
then he takes a look down (way down) at himself, at morga's hand in his feathers, and remembers: ah, yeah. i'm a monster. and all that is long past. he can't possibly dance on legs like these, in a body like this. his brow draws together almost as if in pain, while brief flashing images of laughing and doing a jaunt up on top of a bar counter flash through his mind. offering his hand to some person and twirling across the deck of a ship—a party boat, it was, and they laughed and sang and played music through the night and...
agh. julian shakes his weakly, his smile wavering into something sad again. )
...Ah, well. It's too late now, I'm afraid. But it would have been fun, wouldn't it?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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let's not think about that.
anyway, he doesn't pull away. instead, he lets his eyes close and leans into her touch. he couldn't pull back if he wanted to, really. there just isn't any expressing how good it feels to feel touch again. )
He isn't weak. You just don't get it...
( clucking, malak turns and plucks at a feather by his eyebrow, feathers ruffling. julian sighs. )
Alright, alright—listen, I know what you're trying to say. But it isn't that simple. And even if it were, just to humor you... I— I couldn't go back to Vesuvia. I just... couldn't.
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I'm not asking you to. I don't think I have it in me to return to the far south, myself. I'd be picking at an open wound if I did that. But...
[she sighs, stretching her fingers out to reach behind the curve of his jaw and into the feathers there. they're softer than some of the ones on his arms, and the skin underneath that much more. really, she's content to gently scratch him there for a moment as she thinks. asking him to return to vesuvia so soon is, like she said, out of the question. his family deserves to know he's alive and well (as well as he can be), but where could he go? the south was out of the question until morga got her shit together, but... hm.]
I seem to recall you telling me that Hjalle is rather nice this time of year. And something about spring across the water to the east.
[hot springs, not spring. but close enough.]
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Ah—mm. Now you want to see the world, hmm?
( hjalle. and spring water? oh. his shoulders jump with an utterly silent sound that should have been one of his laughs. it's enough to make malak take off, squawking, but only to light on a branch nearby. )
Hot springs, you mean. In... in... wherever it was I grew up. Somewhere in the east, that's right. I don't remember what those places are like anymore. It's all so faint. Can't even guess how long it's been. Do they even still exist? I'd hardly be much of a tour guide anymore. And besides, how can you expect to take a monster sightseeing? I'll just terrify everyone we come across. Still...
( his hand starts to slip away. he rethinks it and leaves it where it is, eyes peeling open. )
...it's a nice thought, isn't it?
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[a ghost of a smile appears on her face, and for a long moment she's... content? is that what this feeling is? no, not quite, but it's a taste. if she listens hard enough, she can hear traces of the old julian in his voice. once, she'd wanted nothing more than for him to shut up when they first started traveling. now? part of her actually misses wondering what would happen first; her ears freezing, or falling off because of his incessant chatter.]
As for terrifying people... You didn't let that stop you when you dragged me through your city on multiple occasions. I'm fairly certain I remember one man nearly pissing himself when he tried to rob you in that alleyway. And a few people in the palace when they'd find me in a room by myself. The room with that painting comes to mind, actually.
[the one she tore from the walls and subsequently dunked into the fireplace. her head lists towards the hand on her shoulder, not quite leaning on it but more of a silent request for it to stay. it sounds silly in her mind, but the weight brings... some small amount of comfort. emotions were a messy thing, but this? it keeps her grounded. and if she can feel those long talons through the leather and wools of her clothing, she doesn't mention it. jæger weighs more and he sits on her shoulder constantly, so it really doesn't bother her. and why should it?
he's here. he's alive. and that's what matters most, right?]
For the record, you're not as terrible as you think you look.
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( does... that count as a laugh? kind of. he's not quite there, and the noise is more of a birdlike honk than a proper heh, but whatever dumb noise he's making has to be a step up from wallowing in his misery, guilt and self-doubt, right? sure, right.
at least he isn't taking his hand away. not when she drifts toward it in the same sort of way he's drifted to her touch in turn. look, he... mostly remembers. or thinks he does, maybe. names and faces would fade in and out, and the details of who they were and what they were like, too. there were days when he couldn't picture morga whatsoever, let alone recall her voice. then he'd see an illusion or have a nightmare and it'd all come flooding back in broken pieces. but he remembers... he remembers discovering hands-on that he wasn't the only one between them who missed touch. it was an enlightening moment, really. maybe that's what prompts him onward to putting his other hand on her side. he's one second away from just throwing his arms around her and hanging on, but he's sort of afraid he might not come back from that moment if he does it. )
You've only seen me on the ground. It's a lot worse when I'm upright. Which is why I mostly avoid it these days. Being upright, that is.
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cowards. making her think there was some truly vicious beast out here when it's just julian. they really had nothing to be afraid of.]
Shouldn't...
[she doesn't hesitate in getting to her feet. it's already telling that she can stand and keep his hands more or less on her (and hers on him) as she straightens up, but she needs to... no, wants to see this with her own eyes.]
Show me. You were the first man I'd met in a long time who happens to be taller than I am. I'd like to see how much that's changed and how far I'll have to reach now.
[sweet little monty may have taken after her in the looks department, but he definitely took after dear papa as far as height went.]
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( he really doesn't have anyone but himself to blame for that one. if he didn't want it to happen, he shouldn't have said it. julian's lips pull back in a grimace as she stands, his fingers curling to grasp at her like he might pull her back down to the ground. he could, probably easily. more easily than he realizes, in fact. he truly doesn't know the extent of his own strength anymore, but it's a lot. it isn't enough that he's bigger and equipped with spines and fangs and claws, but that with all that size came an abundance of raw power he never quite had before. he could pull her down alright. he could throw her clear across the clearing one-handed if he wanted to.
of course he would never.
just like he would never pull like a barbarian, either. just grasp on, pathetically urging as if that'll accomplish anything. he knows it won't. once morga makes up her mind, that's that, it's done. so he's got no option but to drop the pleading look and sigh resignedly. )
Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you...
( technically, he has not quite seen himself upright. hasn't really looked in a mirror or anything. doesn't technically know what he looks like anymore beyond what he can see and feel of himself. but he knows it's a lot more imposing than it was. he often had to duck through certain doorways, but now he knows he's got to duck through all of them. he's broader, too. partly because of the wings that jut out a bit on either side, even when he's got them tucked close to his body. and— well. she'll see in a minute.
getting up is difficult for him, in fact. as was probably evident by his ungainly movements while she was stalking him, he hasn't quite figured out his body in a lot of ways. it takes a good couple of minutes before he is, at last, standing as "upright" as he can get. arranging his bent legs to support his weight and standing, keeping his balance with an involuntary beat of his wings that rustles up dirt and twigs and leaves from the forest floor—it's a process. even once he is standing, he can't quite straighten his neck or shoulders, although whether that's an effect of his long-practiced bad posture since he disappeared or because of the shape of his body now, it's hard to tell. either way, he's... quite imposing. quite imposing. somewhere past seven feet tall and hulking in a way that might even rival the good ol' scourge of the coliseum—not because of his musculature, although it seems there may be more of it (although that might just be because he isn't wearing anything; doesn't need to, the feathers do the job of decency for him these days), but because, again, of the shape of him, his silhouette, the almost menacing hunch he makes while standing. and the wings, those too. they're enormous, but they hang as useless as if they'd been taped to his back rather than the real, working appendages that they are. he wouldn't really know how to spread them out wide anyway. and he doesn't want to anyhow. why advertise even more what a horrible, unnatural monster he is?
no. instead he holds his arms out at his sides, palms up. once upon a time he was a sculpture model in a faraway land and something like this should have been fun, a chance to flirt—but he's long, long forgotten about that. now his stomach just roils with uneasy nausea, eyes averted. )
...You see? Appalling, isn't it?
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slowly, she stretches a hand out to run along the 'arm' of one of his wings, letting her fingers run through the plumage near his shoulders first. then further down to the larger ones. some look to be even wider than her hand in some places, though she doesn't linger there for very long. the space between his shoulders is next. these ones were softer. shorter. almost downy in places, though how much of that was temporary... she didn't know. up to the curve of his shoulder... there were less here. more scabs and blood feathers. morga's expression softens behind him where she knows he can't see it, her touch lingering there for a moment longer than she means.
she takes care to avoid jostling the ones coming in, sliding her hand and herself around to follow the length of an arm, and when she reaches his hand? she slips hers into his without missing a beat. one doesn't need to be a psychic to know that positive attention is sorely needed here. and... hey, she has two hands. the other one picks up the slack. the back of her knuckles skim down the trail of feathers leading down his sternum, gaze following for a few scant seconds. and then both come back up, palm flattening over his heartbeat.
still as strong as ever. good.
when she finally, finally looks up, she has to crane her head to do it. something slips out - laughter or a scoff, maybe both. strange how julian seems to be staking a claim on a lot of firsts in her life.]
Hush. It's not that bad.
[the hand at his heart falls away, only for her to have to actually reach up to return it to the side of his face. she takes it a step further this time, touching the trail of feathers under his eyes. and even his nose, where they seem to be the softest and barely there, all the way up between his brows.]
...An old partner once asked me why I didn't give them the time of day anymore. I simply told them I found a better warrior. A little gangly like a fawn, but with the heart of a wolf, a pinch of Freya, and all of the cleverness that Huginn carries between his wings wrapped in one messy bundle. That this one knew how to challenge me. Even now, you're much easier on the eyes than they were.
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maybe it just feels worse than it looks who knows.
what doesn't feel bad, anyway, is the touch of her hand in places he himself couldn't have ever hoped to reach. the soft feathers between his shoulders, the back of his arm, the longer feathers on his wings. he shivers once or twice, rustling but not fluffing up. by the time morga has come back to stand in front of him again, wouldn't you know it? could it be? there's a blush under all that birdskin and fluff! the way he bites his lip is probably familiar, too. )
Surely you're not talking about me... how on earth could you still feel that way after all this time? After seeing what I've become?
( as if he doesn't consistently cling to his feelings well after he should have let them go, himself. psh, please. he's twice as bad. his argument is weak at best, anyway. especially when he's finally doing what he told himself not to do for the sake of his emotional stability and putting both his arms around her. )
That—must've been one unfortunate-looking man you settled for, then. Tsk tsk. Treat yourself right for once, won't you?
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and before... well, he'd still been human the last time he'd touched her like this. it's a different sensation now. before his strength had been well-hidden. now, she can feel it radiating off of him just as easily as she can feel the heat of his body through layers of clothing. she can feel it under the weight of his hands, and for a moment all morga can do is stand there looking like someone hopelessly lost in the woods.
before her voice can even think about faltering, morga allows herself a moment of weakness. her arms snake under his own, one hand gripping the base of a wing and the other cinching tight around his back. her forehead goes against his chest, and she just... stays there. whether she wants to acknowledge it or not, it's something she needs. has needed. what did he say - treat yourself right? this counts.]
I am, you fool.
[if it came out muffled? well. don't judge her. don't even look at her. it's just all the fur around her cloak coming up to bunch around her face, that's all.]
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( yada yada yada, he could go on and on about what a horrible awful piece of shit he is forever if you let him. at least that hasn't changed much, either. thing is, he stops on his own. or rather, he ignores himself. or whatever you want to call how he sounds like what he intends to do is push her away, but all he actually does is pull her in. hang on tighter. not too tight, he hopes, but for a moment he forgets about being careful, minding his horrible monstrous additions, sparing her the burden of him... all that shit.
he just hangs on like his life depends on it, shaking all over the tighter his arms squeeze around her shoulders, bowing his whole body down toward her. he's quite a bit too tall to put his face in her hair, but it has the alternative effect of essentially enveloping her entirely. like he could shield her from everything even now, whether there's danger around them or not, with or without the power to heal from any blow he might take. better still when his wings, of their own accord, flutter behind him and then stretch to enfold her in a cocoon of black feathers. )
I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left you. ...But I'm not sorry, either. I had to. And I'd do it again. I'd do anything to keep you safe.
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That's one of the shittiest apologies I've ever heard, and I've both heard and told my fair share of them.
[but does she sound angry? no. no, tucked away and hidden under her rough voice is a sort of... fondness and relief. the grip on the base of his wing loosens, and her hand shifts over to settle in the space between his wings where she starts to idly stroke her fingers through his feathers and over his spine. just to reaffirm that he's still here. that he's real. to calm the trembling she can feel from his body. and maybe to indulge herself further. he said to treat herself, so that's what she's doing.]
Though I'd watch what you say about being an ill omen. Malak might take offense to it.
[plus it's not as if ravens were such an awful thing to begin with!]
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he just never thought he'd feel its like ever again. from anyone. ever.
it's all he can do not to cry. he's not really a crier around other people much, just by habit, but sometimes it can't be helped. he's an emotional guy. always was. and right now—well, for right now he just moves his hands from her arms to her back to the back of her head, never pausing long, like he just can't find the way to hold her that's enough. but of course he can't. nothing ever could be, could it? and look, his feathers are getting all ruffled again. literally. )
You're never going to be safe around me. Why would you want that? You're too smart to be this stupid. Too smart, and... strong, and graceful, a-and lovely, and...
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[when his hand reaches the back of her head, morga tilts her head back into it. not a lot, but just enough to feel his talons press into her hair. see, this? it's not so different from the times jæger would sit on her shoulder and decide to turn his preening attention on her. the only difference is that julian does it with talons instead of a vicious, long beak like the eagle. still, it's... nice. shame his hands don't linger there for long, though.]
Though I'm questioning your judgement if you think I was ever safe before. You've seen the lands I come from. You've seen the remains of villages my clan picked clean like the swarm of beetles that we were. And you even witnessed it yourself when we'd be attacked by stragglers. I'm not sure if I'd know what safe is at my age, even if it came up to bite my face. So... I may be a fool, but trust me when I say I know what I'm doing.
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( though, really, he never had to be made to do anything most of the time. all it took were the right words, the right mind games, all the most twisted plays in all the right places, and julian would succumb all on his own. he was hopeless alone, and he knew it. but what other option was there? better him than... anyone. it was the right thing to do. he'll never not believe that. )
For all we both know, my being here at all is just bait for the rest of you. There's no end to his depravity. You can't rule it out. You know you can't.
( and yet he's still hanging on, emotionally over-impassioned as ever. )
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[which courtier it belonged to, she couldn't say. she'd never forget the stink of magic clinging to montag during those last few days. it wasn't the same sickly-sweet smell of death, but it came close. death, but wrong. to keep her mind off of it, morga lifts her head to look him in the eye as best she can and holds his gaze for a long minute. there was so much she wants to ask, yet... she doesn't know if she can. or if she dares.
finally, she closes her eyes and inhales. he stinks, but... there's nothing out of the ordinary. dirt, sweat, blood... and underneath it, something that's still distinctly julian. she can sense something else, too, but it's faint and buried. whatever it is, it doesn't worry her. it's still him. she's certain and willing to bet on it.
it's with some reluctance that she removes her arm from around his back, but it's for a good reason. she reaches up again to touch his face, and for the first time her brows knit together.]
Tell me how long he had you, Julian. Or... how long you think he did. For us, it's only been a few months.
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he's not so sure he wants to tell her right now, anyway. what the hanged man told him and what he planned to do about it. what someone beat him to doing about it, even. frowning, he just closes his mouth again. between those two subjects, hell, he'll take the latter. it's easy to talk about his own suffering. it's easy to shit-talk lucio, too, even to his mother's face, but maybe not so much in the vein of "your son is responsible for everything wrong with the world, kinda." he'll get to that later. )
I honestly couldn't tell you. The seconds felt like years. The years felt like minutes. There wasn't any clear passage of time there. No day or night, no continuity. I'd go to sleep in one place and wake up in another. And this transformation... that started after ages and ages of struggling. Only once I accepted my place and stopped trying to fight it.
( his wings have settled, by now, to droop limply behind him as ever. they're a mess of scraggly feathers on the undersides, but he couldn't reach them to groom them without knowing how to move them and wouldn't want to even if he could. at least he isn't grabbing anymore. his arms remained draped around her shoulders, his eye contact faltering at times, but returning before long. )
It was more than months. More than years. But how long... long enough for it not to matter anymore, that's all I know.
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what she wants to do now is... gods, morga doesn't know. on one hand, she wants to keep him right here. keep holding him as best she can. give him the comfort and support she'd never been able to give her own flesh and blood. on the other? she wants to track the devil down and take her two pounds. one for montag, and the other for julian. she's tired of losing people, you know? all her life she was meant to protect her clan. her family. those she cared for. and in the end, she failed each time, only to be left with ash, bones, and memories.
she wants to make up for past mistakes. so, while it's a small hit to her pride, morga stands up on her toes to properly throw both arms around the back of julian's neck and tugs him down to her level. hell, why not take it a step further and bury her fingers into the feathers on his head? it's not the same as hair, but it's close enough.]
I've said it before and I'll say it again. He's a goddamn coward, and you can't change my mind about that.
[what point is there in tormenting an already broken man? make that three pounds of flesh. you hear that, devil? she's gunning for your goat ass. maybe she'll even turn those horns into a coat rack.]
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( oh my. well. he hasn't bent like that in a good long while. his back cricks like the old man he isn't (or is, depending on how you choose to interpret the inconclusive passage of time), but he'll take the momentary discomfort in exchange for getting to be the one to hide his face for a change. his arms slide to the small of her back, encircling both to continue the embrace and for balance, and he plants his feathery face right into the crook of her neck. or as much of it as the furs let him get to, at any rate. )
Darling, I can't disagree with you. He doesn't fight fairly in any sense of the word. Believe me, I tried. I tried everything. I tried traps and tricks, I tried brute force, I tried a duel... I even tried magic.
( oh yeah. he can do magic. )
It isn't a matter of being unable to overpower him. It's that he... manipulates you. With his words. With his illusions. By playing on your fears, your innermost weaknesses, your self-doubt. He may not be the root of all evil, but certainly fertilizes it. I'm not the first he's done it to. The realm is full of poor dumb bastards like me.
( ... )
Your son, too. For awhile. But not anymore.
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...You know, I don't even think he realized I was there that night. It was probably for the best that he didn't for a number of reasons, but I would've liked to have seen his face.
[a short, dry bark of laughter into his neck and morga cinches her arms tighter. it's a moment of weakness, but one she'll allow herself just this once.]
Can you imagine what he'd have looked like if he knew you managed to coax me from the forest for his godsdamned birthday party? If he'd seen...
[them. together. sure, she'd mostly stuck to the outside edges of the room or far away from the crowds, but she couldn't deny there was a sort of thrill to standing in a far off corner murmuring all sorts of nonsense and empty threats about disappearing into the gardens if one more frilly loud-mouth stabs their elbow into her kidneys... that night, she'd been all raised hackles, bark, but no teeth to show for it.]
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still. a lot of the masquerade is a blur to him now, swallowed up in the dismal memory of how colossally he failed to protect the most precious people in his life, where he ruminated on it for what feels like tens of thousands of years. but at her mention, he remembers morga coming to the party. her rough-hewn mask and no gown. her practically palpable frustration with the festivities. and how badly he'd wanted to coax her onto the floor at least one dance, just one, but never got the chance before... well. in spite of himself, julian manages a rough, gravelly laugh too. )
Oh, he would have been furious. I can't tell you how many of his advances I had to shrug off the entire time we knew each other. Once or twice I had to quite literally fight him off, he was so goddamn persistent. And just repulsive. He didn't inherit any of your charm. None whatsoever.
( ok, that's not true and he knows it's not true. and he knows this because there were times... plenty of times... lots of times, when he came just a little too damn close to falling into those repugnant arms of lucio's just by virtue of him saying the right thing at the right time (ie when his self-respect was already at its lowest and he didn't think he could do any better). charm? yeah, he had that. and looks, too. but it's a lot easier to talk shit than to admit anything like that to morga, so fuck it. )
It would've been worth it to rub it in his face. On his birthday. When he couldn't do a thing about it.
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[seriously, what was wrong with northerners? if looks could kill, at least ten people would've dropped to the floor that night simply because they didn't understand the concept of personal space. and while morga couldn't deny that there were quite a few pretty little doves and crows flocking around her, she simply didn't have any interest. there had been a reason why she'd pulled julian aside in one of the rooms, and that maaaaaay have been it. not that she'd openly fess up about that. or admit that she'd felt like a cornered animal on one occasion. you can take the woman out of the wilds, they say.]
But... being persistent can be charming in its own right, so... I suppose he inherited that from me. The rest of it? That'd be his father.
[except lutz had been incredibly charming too, in his own way. his heart was never involved in the clan like her own was, but perhaps that was for the better - something to balance the scales, otherwise things may have fallen apart sooner. morga may have crumpled under the weight if there hadn't been someone to take over while she left to act as its protector.]
Though now I'm a little curious... How would you have done it? Something subtle? Or more straight-forward?
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instead, she's free to believe the smile has something to do with her question, instead. or maybe the comment about persistence being charming. or both. whichever. then he's just plain smirking, looking every bit the cad he could be at times when he wasn't covered in feathers. hey, at least his intense emotional distress has passed (for a minute)? )
Subtle? You're asking me if I would have been subtle? And I thought I was the one with memory problems. I don't know the meaning of the word. Never did. No—I would have made it a moment to remember. Not a spectacle, ( yes, an absolute spectacle ) but an undeniable moment in history. That is...
( his head tilts, and he takes a hand from her back to gesture dramatically. the effect works wonders, really. maybe even better than it ever did with his gloves and the cape and theatrical outfit he wore. the feathers, his broad size, the way his wings flutter behind him, it all accomplishes the same thing or more. )
I would have asked you to dance. Not a simple two-step, either. A waltz. A fast one. And we would have made up our own steps. Right in the very center where nobody could miss us. Across the floor, onto the tables, up the steps and back down again. But we'd be about this close the entire time, of course. Maybe even... closer.
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[she's already leaning back to look at him, flourish and all. once, she thought it gaudy — scratch that, she still does. only it's a sort of gaudy that she doesn't seem to mind. he could cut an imposing figure when he wanted to in the past, and she's pleased to see that this form makes no difference. hell, he's even able to command her attention which is no small feat in itself.
with a shake of her head and and a barely-there smile gracing her lips, morga buries her hand into the ruff of feathers in the crook of his neck. still soft? still soft. at least the ones underneath the first layer.]
You'd also wind up having your feet stepped on more than anything else. The last time I've done any sort of "proper" dancing was the night of my wedding, and it wasn't a... you said a waltz?
[that was definitely something she'd never done before. there had been so much going on that night that she couldn't tell a foxtrot from a tango, let alone a waltz. nor had she seen one until then, too. she was more accustomed to the occasional dance that would break out in bars with crowded tables. something less... civilized in high society's eyes.]
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( forgot himself for just a brief moment there. amazing, isn't it? all that time in hell, suffering, tormented by guilt and pain and misery and humiliation, and for just a second in time he'd forgotten about all his problems. like thinking back to the likes of the masquerade before it all went awry transported him back in time. back to when he still had life in his eyes, knew how to have fun, and, well, could dance a "fast, improvised waltz."
then he takes a look down (way down) at himself, at morga's hand in his feathers, and remembers: ah, yeah. i'm a monster. and all that is long past. he can't possibly dance on legs like these, in a body like this. his brow draws together almost as if in pain, while brief flashing images of laughing and doing a jaunt up on top of a bar counter flash through his mind. offering his hand to some person and twirling across the deck of a ship—a party boat, it was, and they laughed and sang and played music through the night and...
agh. julian shakes his weakly, his smile wavering into something sad again. )
...Ah, well. It's too late now, I'm afraid. But it would have been fun, wouldn't it?
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