( AN OPEN POST #2 )

[charmlessness]

 
 
 

you know the drill. pick your poison (not entirely limited to those listed). reply with a prompt in the form of a post, photo, song, text, voicemail, whatever your heart desires & receive a response. simple, right? right.

 
 
 

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[maleficents]

( At his words, smile pulls at her lips, but it's been a long time since any kind of happiness has looked genuine on Maleficent. It pleases her to know that her presence causes him grief in the same way that he does her.

She very well could be honest with him and say that she's got no true reason to be here; that even after all these years she still yearns to look upon him, even after she's lost him. The pain reminds her that she hasn't quire lost herself entirely, and that she's still able to feel overwhelming emotion.

The numbness that's taken over the large percentage of her life grows tiresome, and even the twinge that leaves an ache of lost love feels better than nothing, on occasion. )

He seems to have answered yours, King Stefan.

( The words are laced with cruelty, as after all these years, she's still not forgiven him for his betrayal. She often thinks back to when they were bright-eyed children, running around the Moors. He always insisted that he would wind up in the castle, and how right he was. If only she could've warned herself, somehow; not been so gullible and trusting of the young boy.

Her footsteps echo in the empty chapel, closing in on the kneeling man. How wonderful it feels to know that she has the upper-hand, even while she's half the fairy she once was. )

Are you not pleased with my visit? How very upsetting.

[warred]

[ King. The title rings hollow in his ears. He had loved her — still loves her, in his way — but it's an emotion buried under the shallower, more selfish capabilities of mankind; the conviction that she is in the wrong for having cursed his child, having humiliated him in front of his whole court, despite the fact that he had been the one to take her wings to begin with. She had trusted him, when the castle had been but a distant dream, and he had not imagined that she would factor in as part of the cost.

It is only when she stops that he moves, his hands, clasped in front of him, slowly falling until they reach his sides again. Rings adorn almost every finger, jewels set in gold — refinements of the sorts of things he'd tried to steal from the Moors, when they'd first met. A far cry from the rags he had worn as a young boy, reckless enough to cross into the enchanted forest for the promise of a precious stone. He doesn't stumble as he stands, the robes that had pooled about his feet straightening with his height, careful embroidery falling in and out of shadow. ]

The last time you came, you brought a curse with you.

[ Her voice is cruel and his is accusing. He cannot imagine a scenario in which she would not further extract her revenge — to kill him or to take something else from him (though, arguably, there is nothing left save his own hide; the queen wastes away and the king is absent from her bedside, and Aurora remains more a contest than a true daughter). Wouldn't he do the same to her, were he capable of it? He meets her eyes, and his expression, though it carries the same venom, falters for a single moment. ]

Did you expect me to be cordial?

[maleficents]

( Maleficent laughs, and it's a cold, lifeless sound.

The things she could do to him in this empty building are seemingly limitless. Give him the true punishment and pain he deserves. She makes no move to do anything but speak, though. To someone as terrified as Stefan, it's all she has to do.

His mind will do the rest. )

And the last time you came to me, you took my life with you. So we look to be at an impasse, don't we?

( She grips her staff tightly in one hand, taking a moment to run her hand down the wood of a pew, eyes slowly taking in the room. Religion is something she's never quite understood, being a fairy. the Earth supplies everything required to survive, yet there's always something better to humans, something out of reach.

They're are so trusting of their Gods, considering the higher powers in their lives have done nothing but let them down. Greedy kings and selfish queens, taking and taking but never giving anything in return. )

I expect you to accept your mistakes and live with them. ( Diaval was left behind for once to watch after Aurora, as those three pixies aren't to be trusted with even something as simple as human life.

In here, it's just the two of them. ) Instead, you tremble behind walls and search for answers that don't exist.

[warred]

[ She could kill him, and he would be powerless to do anything about it. His obsession with iron has only just begun to burgeon — as of now, there's none of it on his person, and he has no idea as to the extent of her magic. Though he doesn't move to attack her, or draw closer or further away, fear clouds his thoughts, tips the incline of his descent into madness. (Both of them stand still. Is it uncertainty that keeps them rooted?)

They haven't been alone since that fateful night in the Moors. Was it sentiment or cowardice that had stayed his hand from killing her, then, he can't remember — though, still, he convinces himself it had been a kindness that he had only taken her wings. He can remember feeling her pulse under his hand, but he would not dare to touch her, now.

The muscles in his jaw shift as he looks at her, wondering if she truly is here solely to mock him, or if she expects an apology. (Never, so dictates his pride.) He has pored over every moment that has passed, for the large part simply allowing blind bitterness and rage to sway his heart, but also wondering, however briefly, where, exactly, the biggest mistake had been made. If he ought to have killed her, if he ought to have reached out, following the coronation, if he ought to have begged harder for her to spare his daughter's life. But no, he thinks, he couldn't have afforded any of it. ]

If you're here to kill me, then be done with it.

[ His voice is sharp, reedy in his throat. (He — as all men do — still fears death. But it's a balance between that, and calling whatever it is her bluff may be.) ]

Besides, there's only one answer that matters. Iron burns the fairy folk, and that's what you still are, even if you no longer have your wings.

[maleficents]

( Maleficent makes a soft tsk, tsk noise, as though to scold him for being so daft. Has he no imagination? Violence can't possibly be the only answer men hold in high regard.

She is not naive enough to think that she would ever get an apology. Maybe years ago, when her vision was still partially clouded with hopes that he might come back to her and return that which was taken, but that time has passed. In its place, a mixture of bitterness and anger has taken over.

Never again does she want to be so trusting of someone that so willingly deceives to get what they want. That mistake cost her far too much, and she learned her lesson. Love isn't real, and man is never, under and circumstances, to be trusted.

Wiping a bit of dust off of the wooden backboard of the pew she stands at, an eyebrow arches high on her forehead. Messy, messy. Just as he is. )

Oh, Stefan, no. ( She speaks as though she's fond of him. Deep down, there are parts of her that still are; parts of her that are still in love with that boy that kissed her, saying he belonged with her. ) I'm not going to kill you — that would be too easy.

( Eyes narrowed and jaw tight, Maleficent steps even closer, keeping mind to stay out of reach. She knows what a desperate man is capable of, and he knows her on weakness.

Surely he's got many an iron object on his person, and that's not a risk she's willing to take. )

I want you to suffer.

[warred]

[ For the both of them, there lies a discrepancy between what they believe to be true and what actually is. Quite possibly, it accounts for a large part of the gap that stretches ever wider between them, despite the fact that there had been a time when they had hardly gone a few days without seeing each other. (They'd been much younger, granted, burdened with much less responsibility, though that does not belittle the existence of sentiment nor how true it had seemed, at the time.) She doesn't mean to take his life — he still does not completely exploit the fact that he knows how to take hers. Both hands stayed, though that does not keep them from poisonous words.

Her voice is soft and then harsh, in turns, and it only twists the knife deeper between his ribs. He lacks vision beyond all-consuming ambition, lacks scope beyond what had been ingrained in him as a boy. (Riches as defined by material possessions and the obedience of others rather than the existence of something to love and be loved by in turn.) That gap had formed early — he had still had nothing while she had grown to preside over the Moors, powerful in a way that would never be accessible to him. As little as childhood games may mean, there is still an undeniable disappointment that comes with winding up last, time after time.

His expression mirrors hers as he steps forward, though he keeps his hands (balled into fists) at his sides. ]

Do you think I don't?

[ There are other answers he could use — and so you curse my daughter to do it — but they escape him, as drawn up as he is in his own preoccupations. ]

I see your shadow everywhere I go.