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[Fic] Masquerade
Jul. 17th, 2011 01:26 amVenice 1856
The notes of the music sparkled like the jewels on the masks the dancers wore as they spun around and around on the parquet floor beneath him. Elijah rested against the balcony, pale fingers of one hand fiddling with the ring he wore on the other. His nail scratched and caught at his family crest, emblazoned in gold on the circlet—a constant reminder of his quest lest he be tempted to forget himself.
He was tempted, anyway.
She was hunting. So was he.
In and out through the crowd, she flitted, a dark shadow in the bright lights of the carnival masquerade. He had to smile—a tight, quick, flickering expression—that her gown and mask were both stark black, with only the jet and onyx beading to lighten them when the flames of the candles reflected in their polished surfaces. She was death come to dance, and the men who flocked to her thought her only an imitation and laughed as they tripped a measure to their own doom. The women who swarmed around him, seeking to lighten the shadow he cast, did the same. What light her darkness didn't absorb, he swallowed, black domino swirling around the other dancers, black mask concealing over half his face.
She saw him when one dance led into another. Her lips were red, the only color about her, but they drew his gaze as he was sure they were meant to. His gaze stayed trained upon them as he moved through the steps, ever toward her.
“You're meant to catch me.”
“But if I catch you, the game will be over.”
His fingers curled around hers in an iron grip, just as those blood-red lips—surely she'd fed on one of her partners to achieve so perfect a color—parted in startled recognition.
“Elijah...”
( It was petty, that the tremor of both fear and defiance in her voice sent a thrill down his spine. He hadn't wanted her to fear him, but his anger demanded it now, and she gave, as she should. )
The notes of the music sparkled like the jewels on the masks the dancers wore as they spun around and around on the parquet floor beneath him. Elijah rested against the balcony, pale fingers of one hand fiddling with the ring he wore on the other. His nail scratched and caught at his family crest, emblazoned in gold on the circlet—a constant reminder of his quest lest he be tempted to forget himself.
He was tempted, anyway.
She was hunting. So was he.
In and out through the crowd, she flitted, a dark shadow in the bright lights of the carnival masquerade. He had to smile—a tight, quick, flickering expression—that her gown and mask were both stark black, with only the jet and onyx beading to lighten them when the flames of the candles reflected in their polished surfaces. She was death come to dance, and the men who flocked to her thought her only an imitation and laughed as they tripped a measure to their own doom. The women who swarmed around him, seeking to lighten the shadow he cast, did the same. What light her darkness didn't absorb, he swallowed, black domino swirling around the other dancers, black mask concealing over half his face.
She saw him when one dance led into another. Her lips were red, the only color about her, but they drew his gaze as he was sure they were meant to. His gaze stayed trained upon them as he moved through the steps, ever toward her.
“You're meant to catch me.”
“But if I catch you, the game will be over.”
His fingers curled around hers in an iron grip, just as those blood-red lips—surely she'd fed on one of her partners to achieve so perfect a color—parted in startled recognition.
“Elijah...”
( It was petty, that the tremor of both fear and defiance in her voice sent a thrill down his spine. He hadn't wanted her to fear him, but his anger demanded it now, and she gave, as she should. )
