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Pattadol’s expression, though face flushed red, though with droopy ears, though with her pupils blown out and her lips pathetically parted, still has steel behind it. There’s something in those clear blue—annoying, Cithis thinks, what an annoying eye color it is; and of course she’s blonde, too, could she be any more stereotypical?—something defiant, this clawing this girl does for control, for order, and somehow, it manages to… tug at Cithis. At something inside of her, where she thinks there ought to be nothing at all.
And when did this feeling lodged into Cithis’ ribcage, this boiling annoyance, this hatred of everyone noble—and especially rookie Pattadol, especially good-for-nothing Pattadol, especially sheltered little noble girl Pattadol, especially little Miss sacrificial lamb Pattadol, especially snooty, thinks-she’s-better-than-everyone Pattadol—shift into this, anyway? Into this… amusement, Cithis thinks, dragging the nail of her index finger along the edge of Pattadol’s jaw like a blade, like she’s not all that sure yet if she’s not going to flay flesh from bone, anyway.
She wouldn’t, she finds. She wouldn’t, and it coils in her chest until she’s grinding her teeth in frustration, until she fists a hand into Pattadol’s hair and tugs, watching Pattadol’s chin tip back, watching her throat bob. But Cithis is not a lion, and she couldn’t maul Pattadol’s throat open even if she tried.
This might just be the next best thing, however: watching Pattadol’s lashes twitch, the way her ears droop, the way she shivers. There’s steel in Pattadol’s eyes, and perhaps there always will be, but right now, she’s still sweating.
Right now, she’s still at Cithis’ mercy.
.
If there’s one thing Cithis enjoys to do—and she does enjoy plenty of things, even as a prisoner and a criminal and a more-than-occasional canary—it’s watch people. Not because she’s interested in them, not really; at least most of the time.
No, her hobby—and it’s amusing to call it that in her head; her hobby, like she’s one of those nobles who sit on their behinds all day and do nothing but get really into pottery for a month and then never think of it ever again, because they can afford such things—is more complicated than that. It involves a lot of thought, and a lot of planning, and most of all, a lot of fantasizing. What she’s doing, sometimes to pass the time, sometimes because she may or may not actually be actively planning something, is to figure people out, figure out how she could bring them to heel.
It’s what she’s been doing most of her life, after all. Figuring people out, exploiting their weaknesses, and what they want to see, want to hear. Cithis’ magic allows her to control people in the most intimate of ways, and if she’d never have been caught, she’d still be at it, slipping her way through elven society to make it better for herseld than she ever had before.
It’s not like all those nobles even deserve any of that wealth and status, anyhow. It’s not like most of them even know what to do with any of it. She’s much better at that; a much better fit, she always has been.
But, ah, she did get caught, and right now she’s watching Pattadol. Rigid-spine Pattadol, high-strung Pattadol, Pattadol who’s as easy to read as a book, and much more irritating, too.
Boring. Boring, boring, boring. The moment she gets assigned as the Captain’s partner, Cithis is sure she’ll soon be dead like all the others. Not even any use in figuring her out, but she does so, anyway, of course she does; she cannot help it.
Hm, she thinks, watching the way Pattadol folds her hands behind her back, stands up straight in the Captain’s presence, even when her fairy is fluttering around her head in circles, betraying her nerves. She might just taste good, however, just a little. Shame I’ll never get to devour her.
She imagines killing Pattadol; doing it with a knife, perhaps, a clean, pretty cut across the throat, blood splattering out, tainting that porcelain-skin and the golden hair, until she’s unrecognizable. Imagines wrapping her hands around the line of Pattadol’s throat, squeezing until her face turns blue, her eyes roll back. Imagines gutting her, then, pushing her hands inside and taking only what’s valuable; if there’s even anything like that inside this girl.
Still, Cithis is left hungry. Perhaps she’ll always be left hungry from now on. Perhaps she’s always been hungry. Perhaps that’s all this is, in the end.
Ah, humans are so simple, aren’t they, the lot of them?
.
Pattadol does taste good, it turns out. Sterile and clean in a way Cithis can appreciate, though she thinks she’d appreciate it more if the girl’s mouth was filled with blood instead. Hm, something that can be arranged, she thinks, in time.
But this is before that and that is before this and deep down, Cithis thinks there’s just no way out of this cycle, anyway, thinks people like her will always be stuck here.
How nice it is, then, that just for now, Pattadol—of the House of Vari—is stuck here, with her. Little canary bird, sold out by her family to be a sacrifice; and a sacrifice she shall be, even when she has survived thus far, even when she has exceeded Cithis’ expectation, something that certainly does not happen very often.
Pattadol does taste good, and her squeak when Cithis bites down on her bottom lip rushes down Cithis’ spine, making something in her head feel like it’s snapping (in place, perhaps, but perhaps not). Makes her want to bite down until it pops between her teeth like overripe fruit, until she can truly devour her.
Slowly, slowly, slowly. Being too hasty is what got her this nasty prison sentence in the first place.
Not that she thinks Pattadol is going to be of much danger to her. But, well, you never know, right? Better safe than sorry, and all that, though Cithis thinks she’s probably not being all that safe right now, tugging at a guard’s bottom lip with her teeth. Though, well, it’s not her guard, so this should be fine, right?
When Cithis pulls away, Pattadol is flushed an ugly red and panting, bottom lip swollen. Like this, she looks as unpleasantly appealing as she ought to be; but surely, Cithis can ruin her even more. Another time, perhaps, she needs to leave the little bird wanting, after all. That’s what this game is about, is it not?
There’s an almost angry look in Pattadol’s eyes when her lips part to speak, despite everything. “Are you planning to eat me?” she hisses, a hoarse edge to her voice that almost zaps down Cithis’ spine. Hmm. That won’t do, will it?
Cithis puts a smile on her face, tilts her head, brushes fingertips through her hair to push it over her shoulder, watching how Pattadol’s eyes flick down to follow her movement. Hypnotized, even when Cithis has not used even a single spell. And this is what’s entertaining about Pattadol—and equal parts irritating—Cithis thinks, the way her head snaps up again, the furrow between her brows, the steel in those sky-blue eyes.
You think yourself unbreakable, do you, girl?
But Cithis knows better than that. She knows the tremble of Pattadol’s shoulders all too well, after all—and Pattadol not knowing she’s nothing but a lamb doesn’t change anything about the fact.
Still smiling, Cithis taps the tip of Pattadol’s nose with her index finger, letting her fingernail linger for just a moment. Says, in a joking tone that’s way less so than she’s pretending, “Perhaps I am.”
.
These days, whenever Cithis gets bored, she imagines taking Pattadol apart.
It’d be almost enough to simply watch the girl, rigid-spined at the debrief, gaze serious, focused, soaking up every single word. She does always take everything so seriously, doesn’t she? Everything in order, in a neat row, or Lady Pattadol will pass out.
Amusing, yes, but not enough to get through the sheer mind-numbing boredom that are these meetings. And these days, Cithis doesn’t even need to pay attention in case she needs to summarize it for the Captain—most often the case when said meeting has nothing to do with any demons, of course—because Pattadol is very much equipped for that job and also very much Captain Mithrun’s actual partner.
(There’s an itch in Cithis’ ribcage.)
For now, that is. Until she bites the dust, as well. Almost a little sad; Cithis certainly has never felt like that would be a bit of a shame before, with any of the others.
These days, whenever Cithis gets bored, she imagines taking Pattadol apart, and that’s what she’s doing right now. Balancing her knife against her by now empty plate, imagining running it over Pattadol’s porcelain skin instead. This girl is so young, so new on the job, she probably does not have any scars already, does she? And if she does, they’re likely from childhood accidents. A scraped knee here, an elbow banged open from falling off a tree there. Perhaps one under those silly bangs of her, hidden from plain sight.
Hm. Wouldn’t that be something, indeed?
It’s serious business to consider where Cithis would cut first—almost as serious, it seems, as this meeting is to Pattadol, because she’s still sitting there unmoving, back straight, hands folded in her lap, not moving even an inch—something to be thought over carefully. Pattadol’s nose, perhaps; it has always bothered Cithis.
(Round. Big. Cute.)
But that seems too soft, doesn’t it? Though perhaps that’s a good place to start. Hmm.
Pattadol’s nose twitches like part of her notices Cithis staring just as Cithis imagines peeling the flesh and sinew and muscles from Pattadol’s cheek, revealing pearly teeth underneath, dyed pink in rivulets of diluted blood. She’d have to hypnotize her, of course; she does not want Pattadol to soil herself. Not just unhygienic but also plain gross.
Pattadol’s nose twitches like part of her notices Cithis staring, but her eyes don’t flick over to Cithis, and otherwise, she doesn’t move. For some reason, there’s the impulse clawing inside of Cithis’ chest to throw her knife at Pattadol, if only to get her attention.
And, well, if she manages to hit an eye at the same time—lodging into it, causing it to explode, one less noble blue eye in the world; perhaps her throw’d even be strong enough to make the knife dig just a bit into Pattadol’s brain—then that’d just be lovely, wouldn’t it?
.
One time, Cithis dreams of sitting on the edge of a cliff with her legs dangling off it, Pattadol beside her, for some reason. Their pinky fingers are hooked around each other and she’s still pondering how she could cut Pattadol’s off when Pattadol speaks.
“I’d like to see underneath your face.”
It manages to startle a laugh out of Cithis, fizzing like acid and elven soda in her throat. Her grip tightens around the cliff’s edge, fingertips digging into grass and stone and earth until her knuckles turn pale.
“Underneath my face? What does that mean, pray tell?”
But then Pattadol turns her head to look at her, and suddenly none of this is funny at all anymore. Because there it is again, that steady look deep down in Pattadol’s eyes, despite the furrow of her brows, despite the way she presses her lips to a tight line in nerves.
It’s then that Cithis figures out what bothers her so much about Pattadol, even beyond her just being a sheltered little noble girl, the exact type she hates: it’s these eyes; somehow, Cithis can’t shake the feeling that they can look right through her, even when she knows they can’t, even when she knows Pattadol is extraordinarily naive.
“I doesn’t matter,” she sneers, to no one in particular. Pattadol’s finger is burning against hers. “You’re going to die soon, anyway. Gone, gone, gone, and I’ll still be here, and you’ll have mattered nothing at all.”
Pattadol doesn’t say anything.
.
And when did this feeling lodged into Cithis’ ribcage, this boiling annoyance, this hatred of everyone noble, of Pattadol, shift into this, anyway?
She drags a fingernail up Pattadol’s throat, watches the way it bobs as she swallows hard. Feels something prickle at the back of her head, and Pattadol is on her hands and knees, digging into the sofa cushions underneath them, where Cithis is leaning back, back, back. Face red again—in blotches, blood hot, hot, hot underneath her skin, and still, Cithis wants to cut her open—ears twitching, brows furrowed. Like a little dog.
She sure does bark like one. Though obedient she is not, not for Cithis, that is, and it bothers her. It always bothers her to not have people in the palm of her hand.
But there’s something different about this. She’s no longer annoyed, not really. Full of tension, sure. Full of distaste, always; and there’s still something tugging at her insides, flashes of violence rushing through her with Pattadol close enough she can smell her. She still wants to wrap both hands around Pattadol’s throat until it shuts her up forever, still wants to stab her in the lungs, watching blood gurgle out of there, so she dies slowly.
But, hm, well, what’s spreading inside of her now is amusement, actually. The second realization hits harder than the first did; it’s amusement, and Pattadol is still alive, too. She’s alive, kneeling in front of Cithis, pearly teeth digging into her bottom lip like overripe fruit, squirming, flushed up to her forehead and down to her collarbones, and instead of bitter contempt rushing through her, Cithis finds herself amused.
How terrible. But, well, maybe she can make Pattadol do another trick, while she’s at it. After all, what’s a little entertainment in these trying times? In these trying, deadly times?
There’s the ship all around them, and perhaps this time, Pattadol will die. Perhaps this time, Cithis will finally be rid of her. There’s something weird in her chest for just a moment when she imagines it.
“Ah,” she breathes when Pattadol leans in again, lips pursed and sweaty, looking utterly ridiculous, though she always is. Brushes fingertips through Pattadol’s hair idly, just a little, smirking at the way Pattadol flinches. “Greedy little girl, are you?”
Pattadol somehow manages to flush even darker, and the look in her eyes always pisses part of Cithis off. Right now, however—
Right now, Pattadol is in the palm of her hand, in a way. Right now, Pattadol is right where she wants her. Right now, Pattadol is so, so, so much fun to play with. If only she was always like this; if only Cithis could keep her around as a pet of sorts.
But, ah, little Pattadol is just too determined for that, isn’t she? Seems like little Pattadol will have to die, after all.
(There’s a twinge in Cithis’ ribcage that disappears when she shifts a little. She’s not as young as the girl in front of her anymore, isn’t she? Barely an adult, baby-faced and green behind the pointy ears, naive, full of… hope. Ridiculous little thing. Are all young girls like this? Was Cithis once like this, too?
But, ah, little Cithis was never a noble, was she?)
“You—” Pattadol hisses, cutting herself off, pressing her lips to a thin like, eyes flaming. Cithis cocks a brow. Seems like little Pattadol is still too well-mannered to actually curse. Pity. Boring, too.
“Yes?” Cithis asks, tilting her head with it, the fingertips of her free hand ghosting over her lips as she brushes her hand over the fabric over Pattadol’s shoulder. Her makeup is smudge-proof—it has to be with a job such as hers, even when she definitely did not choose it—so there’s no mark on Pattadol’s lips from her lipstick. Pity, pity, pity.
Are you planning to eat me? Pattadol had asked her what now seems like a lifetime ago—though it truly has not been that long—and right now, when she cradles Pattadol’s jaw in an iron grip, she thinks again that perhaps she does.
Perhaps this is what her hatred has bled into; this hunger. Perhaps this is what it all comes back to, perhaps it’s always been. Perhaps she’s always wanted to maul someone, but she’s never wanted to maul someone as bad as she does now; taste hot blood in her mouth, feel a fading pulse against her lips, her tongue. Eat, perhaps. Finally be full, be sated, or something of the like, even when things like that do always tend to be temporary. Pity.
(Somewhere at the back of her mind, Cithis wonders if she’d kill Pattadol, if she’d actually do it, if she had the opportunity to, if she could get away with it. Somewhere at the back of her mind, Cithis wonders—)
“I’ll leave,” Pattadol says, petulant like a child. She really doesn’t understand what this is, does she? “I can just leave.”
As if that’d change anything for Cithis. As if the watching—the waiting—the fantasizing about red blood and open, spongy flesh and white fat, about pale, skinny thighs and bony shoulders and plucked-out blue eyes, about lips swollen from bites and hoarse, panting, hot breaths, isn’t half or more of the fun already. The planning, the putting things together, the taking things apart.
Though she has to admit, she thinks as she curls her hand around Pattadol’s throat, suppressing a shiver at the yelp that slips out of Pattadol, vibrating against Cithis’ palm, there’s something to be said about the hands-on approach, sometimes. Pity she’s not allowed to use her magic on the girl.
“Oh, is that so?” she says, holding Pattadol’s throat without squeezing, watching Pattadol’s wide—blue, blue, blue—horrified eyes. “Feel free to.”
Pattadol grits her teeth, but she does not go, even though Cithis will never, ever give her what she wants from this.
Whatever that might be, anyway.
.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” Cithis purrs, smoothly, evenly, smiling, holding her hand out for the newbie to shake. Another sacrifice. Poor little thing.
Pattadol—of the House of Vari, and it pisses Cithis off, all of it pisses Cithis off—furrows her brows, flexing her jaw quite visibly, keeping her back straight and her hands folded behind her back. Hmm. There’s something about these flighty little eyes, something careful, something steel-tight, something very clearly freaked out.
Hmm. It rushes down Cithis’ spine coldly, and for some reason, she cannot shake the feeling of being watched, of being see-through like glass, creeping up on her. For some reason, the new sacrifice-girl looks at her like part of her understands what Cithis is.
(Not a nice feeling, that’s for sure; but it’s okay, this girl is dying sooner or later, anyhow, and if she’s lucky, Cithis will get to be the one to do it.)
“Hmm,” Cithis says, still smiling, tapping her chin with her index finger, clawing the fingers of her other hand into her arm. How annoying. “I’m sure we’ll get along.”
And she’s lying, of course, and Pattadol looks like she knows she’s lying. Cithis blinks and chases it away, imagines chopping off Pattadol’s big nose for a bit of fun.