Nothing's Conventional About Us

XVII ~ Lilac

They say lilac has always been
The colour of new beginnings.
Of blossoms and spring,
Of youth and innocence.
Then it certainly was
Never their colour.
For their beginning, felt akin to drowning - 
Life and death, rolled into one.

Lilac

One word - one word had shifted their world on its axis and now, they were in no way a part of the world that surrounded them. 

Not that they ever were. 

In this moment, one word had created a world of their own. A world where firestorms were welcomed like the first showers of monsoon. 

"Sýntrofos"

No one around them - par, the one common friend who was now grinning into his crystal chalice of some sort of red juice in an effort to hide his grin from a crowd that would not understand its meaning - had very probably heard the single word that she had uttered in absolute wonder. 

Both of them took a deep breath in an effort to calm whatever catastrophic storm had begun within themselves, but it had the opposite effect, as expected. They should not have. Because the moment they did so, they had to grit their teeth and stop breathing altogether. 

Her scent of wild lotuses, of a mountain stream and of a summer afternoon in the Mountain - the smell of ambrosia clouding the air like a thick mist - had entered his lungs like a fire so beautiful, so burning; like the first gulp of air - water - that finally leads to drowning. So very craved, so very cherished, and so deadly.

His fists clenched under the table cloth, as he let go of her hand wordlessly. If he dared to hold on for one more moment, it would certainly lead to something that should certainly not happen in front of all these people. His friend and brothers would be extremely scandalised to sit witness to it and disappointed to have to clean up the mess of littered corpses.

For some odd reason, a smirk quirked up a corner of her lips and she leaned all but a hair's breadth into him, her scent clouding - almost clouding - the very last vestiges of his control. 

"Such horrendous timing, Your Highness, isn't it?", her whisper caressed the shell of his ear like the hiss of wind, and he almost hissed and roared and lunged in return. 

"Do not dig your own grave, Princess.", he hissed right back, like some vicious beast showing special mercy on its craved prey and asking it to run against its own instincts. 

If only she were a prey...

Her smirk became more pronounced, seemingly unaffected by his words as she volleyed back, "I'm merely digging it. You shall never see me lying in it, mou sýntrofos."

She almost purred the last two words, her voice an octave lower than he had ever heard her and well, that was something. 

"Oh you will, Princess. And I shall be right there with you.", his voice dropped low, as if to contest with hers. 

Some strange fire had been lit within her with the coming alive of the bond. Maybe it was Nature's way of pushing them together - his raging need and desire for her, and her merciless tormenting of his already burning self. 

She leaned another hair's breadth closer to him and sprinkled the words like powdered resin right into his fire, "Atop or beneath, mou sýntrofos?"

And then she shifted the breadth of those two hair, to sit right back in her place, her cool crystal chalice meeting her heated, flushed lips; almost as if in a failed attempt to wash away or replace the desire of his burning lips against them.