This is how the day starts, before there is any warning of demons and their true danger is made apparent: a pair of voices in conversation in the apartment. Henry's, and one that is both seductive and infernal.
There are no bargains made. Henry would refuse and cut down the creature before it finished speaking. The last thing that he would do is besmirch his honour.
His trial is something much more insidious: an illusion. He has no idea that he speaks with a desire demon. Some dreams feel so real that you only learn you were dreaming after waking up.
He might as well be fast asleep the way that he stares into nothing, seeing that which is out of reach.
The themes are familiar. What is new is the pressing urge to give in.
There is a bite in the air today, a brisk and invigorating cold. Henry loves days like this when the last days of autumn teeter on the edge of winter. But then, he is Northumbrian. Iamarl looks less pleased by the weather. Perhaps the lighter clothes she prefers were suitable down south, but they are insufficient here in his home county.
He can see goosebumps on the exposed part of her forearms and feels a pang of temptation. He imagines running his hands over her skin and chasing them away. Impulse control is not his strongest point; he steps in and presses his palms to her arms.
It feels like an age since Henry was last in London, able to revel in Edward and Iamarl's company behind closed doors. It is a pity that Edward cannot just slip away as Iamarl can – besides the fact he can never travel freely, it is royal business that brings him up north – but they will reunite with him in a matter of days as court converges.
She looks at him with her expressive violet eyes, her white-painted lips parting.
“I am not so cold,” she protests, with a undercurrent of embarrassment.
Henry laughs at her particular brand of stubbornness: a determination to never inconvenience anyone however ill-advised. Too much longer outside and she will be shivering.
“What would Edward say if I dragged you back to York ailed by a chill?”
She sighs in response, but expressive as her face is he can see her folding: God forbid that she inconvenience their prince in particular. Iamarl is not a woman of many words. All conversations with her are half-spoken in physical cues. When he feels her lean in slightly, he knows he has won.
15th ✠ closed to Maketh Tua;
There are no bargains made. Henry would refuse and cut down the creature before it finished speaking. The last thing that he would do is besmirch his honour.
His trial is something much more insidious: an illusion. He has no idea that he speaks with a desire demon. Some dreams feel so real that you only learn you were dreaming after waking up.
He might as well be fast asleep the way that he stares into nothing, seeing that which is out of reach.
The themes are familiar. What is new is the pressing urge to give in.
There is a bite in the air today, a brisk and invigorating cold. Henry loves days like this when the last days of autumn teeter on the edge of winter. But then, he is Northumbrian. Iamarl looks less pleased by the weather. Perhaps the lighter clothes she prefers were suitable down south, but they are insufficient here in his home county.
He can see goosebumps on the exposed part of her forearms and feels a pang of temptation. He imagines running his hands over her skin and chasing them away. Impulse control is not his strongest point; he steps in and presses his palms to her arms.
It feels like an age since Henry was last in London, able to revel in Edward and Iamarl's company behind closed doors. It is a pity that Edward cannot just slip away as Iamarl can – besides the fact he can never travel freely, it is royal business that brings him up north – but they will reunite with him in a matter of days as court converges.
She looks at him with her expressive violet eyes, her white-painted lips parting.
“I am not so cold,” she protests, with a undercurrent of embarrassment.
Henry laughs at her particular brand of stubbornness: a determination to never inconvenience anyone however ill-advised. Too much longer outside and she will be shivering.
“What would Edward say if I dragged you back to York ailed by a chill?”
She sighs in response, but expressive as her face is he can see her folding: God forbid that she inconvenience their prince in particular. Iamarl is not a woman of many words. All conversations with her are half-spoken in physical cues. When he feels her lean in slightly, he knows he has won.
“Come along. Let us see you warmed.”