It had been horrific; multiple wings, something that looked like an arm and two sticks for legs. She grimaced the second she got up, more from the fact that she’d laid in the snow at all than her finished product.
She was a faerie before she was an artist and even when she made something ugly, she was proud over it.
"Think ‘t looks like ye a bi’," was spoken, only after she’d retreated under every blanket he had in the house, "Mus’ b’ th’ skinny legs."
Scars on his muzzle, lost molar and his tongue rested in its space.
He’d bay if he thought it benefit him,
he’d beg for the scraps of a king.
Thought he might like to chase a bird or two in the yard.
New dog, new tricks.
"Ye mind yer heid, lad. A wee daemon, she is."
And his chest was the summoning board, growing in scratches numbered six to eight in a circle — a faerie ring, he realized.
And he’d pay her all but gold and blood and the flesh off his back, but he’d been green enough to almost let her con him out of all three.
The devil came in the form of a faerie and the snake came not long after.
And he offered up his body for possession and knew with a grim hindsight he was hers all along.
"Yer playin’ with forces beyond yer kin, boy."
His father shifted in his chair. Picked at the lip with his right hand nails that itched for his flail to crack walnuts and something other than heads when he was pressed and sour about something. Left behind the dirt underneath. And the letter wax. And the ashes from his pipe.
"She’s ae righ’ coo…bu’ she’s harmless, Da’. Believe me. Twigs ‘n’ wings."
The bite of blunt on beach wood.
"Ae babby shark is still ae bloody shark."
He was the first blonde in the family on both sides for generations.
Pegged for a bastard from his first breath.
And it wasn’t true, of course, but he might as well act it.
And she feels his blood, truly, for the first time.
And she -he- somehow knew this was how it would feel. Hound’s tooth. Clean.
Under her skin instead of pressing at his veins or sucking it from a cut she’d made herself with her blackberry twig knife.
It’s blue. It’s ocean.
She’d thought so.
She didn’t earn that crown, she took it.
“What’s th’ difference?”
As beautiful and terrible as her gold.
Mortals are instruments. Some drums. Some flutes and harps. And others pretty or heavy things that make too much noise and have old spit in old corners not worth their silver.
He is the lyre in his hand. New. A few dents near the middle. You pressed louder and you got louder. Most notes were nice next to one another even if they were out of tune. He was always looking for someone to play him though. Because an instrument is a lonely thing and only as good as the hand upon it.
She knows Greensleeves by heart now.
She ghosts her lip with her tongue and it’s pennies and it’s surprise and it’s seven hells with a specific sort of faith that makes her toes curl like the curly-wurly touch-me-not’s in his mother’s garden.
His neck is a mess. So is his back.
She needs blood and he’s got more than enough.
She’d been a pretty thing and her job had been to make more pretty things.
Somewhere along the line she became a bad man.
And then a bad wolf.
At last; a beautiful rat.
She was naked save for the strip of red tartan around her sharp wrist.
“Beowulf…It has been a long time since a man has come to visit me.”