Thread: Blood by the Cross (Morathor/Hamadryad)

His laughter interrupted her as he pulled a book off the shelf. His tone was a little more mocking than he had intended, but he couldn't help it. It wasn't often he heard rambling like this. It was the cross, he was sure. Most people knew. From the moment they saw Delacroix, heard his voice, or felt his touch, they knew what he was. Not consciously, not intellectually, not in any way they could put into words, but it seemed they could feel it, deep in their souls. He'd experienced that feeling himself once, long ago, and he'd had a long time to think about what it actually was that he'd felt, to put it into words. It was, he had decided, the absolute, irrefutable certainty that there existed something beyond humanity, beyond human control or even comprehension, and that it did not care about him. Delacroix had responded to that certainty, all those years ago, with awe and wonder, but he had seen many other reactions. Fear, lust, confusion, exhileration... often a mix of several emotions. Whatever they felt, their little minds were invariably overwhelmed by it. He still remembered what that was like--like that precise and infuriating point of inebriation where one was drunk enough to struggle with words and thoughts, but sober enough to know it should not have been so hard. But the cross changed everything. That pitiful trinket, which likely held no meaning to the girl, was doing all in its power to save her. It wouldn't be enough, of course, but it was making things a touch more interesting. Her mind was still clear enough to babble about her parents and Normandy and her squalid little cottage. And she might still have understood, on some level anyway, the situation she was now in. He had noticed her unease, her tension, the way she avoided his eyes. Did she have some comprehension of what she was faced with, or was she thinking about the rumors? Perhaps it was simpler than that. She was a young, poor girl, clearly aware of her beauty, in the private chambers of a powerful man. This could easily go very badly for her. And, of course, it was going to. What a dutiful daughter, Delacroix said, supressing his earlier mocking tone, making a show of earnest admiration. Your parents must be very proud of you. It's funny, though, that you should call me 'my lord,' when... He turned to her with a smile, opening the book and thumbing through the pages. Do you know this, Adalene? Matthew chapter six, verse twenty four, 'nemo potest duobus dominis servire, aut enim unum odio habebit et alterum diliget, aut unum sustinebit et alterum contemnet.' He stepped into arm's reach of her, eyes still on the book. 'No one can be a slave to two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other.' He looked up at her as he closed the book with a sharp snap, eyes fixed on her necklace. His tone shifted as he spoke, into something tense and slightly threatening. One must pay god all due respect of course. But to walk into my chambers wearing another Lord's heraldry around your neck... He shook his head as he walked past her, circling around to stand behind her. Especially when you have chosen your dress to draw attention to it. Of course, that was far from the only thing her dress drew attention to. He reached up, to the back of her head, running his fingers through her hair, cool fingertips tracing along her scalp. It makes me wonder who you hold to, Adalene. As his hand neared the top of her head, he closed it into a fist, clenching her dark locks and jerking her head back slightly. He lowered his voice nearly to a whisper. If I am your master, you'll take it off.