the art of love

Love had long since been forged into a weapon for Prasenti. 

The loss of his dearest Aemulrae had forced it into grief, the kind that bled and bled and bled until he could not bear the hurt and turned it outwards instead. His rage was the kind only otherworldly beings were capable of—when not beset by a looming mortality, grudges had a habit of festering into absolute rot. What had once been directed to his beloved was now used against all who had stood in opposition or idly by as she was slain without mercy for the sole sin of loving someone she should have not. 

Over the years, the heat had faded, but the hatred behind it had not. Prasenti bided his time and his power, collecting loyal follower after loyal follower. His eyes, a lilac shade that blended so prettily into depthless black, boasted a near irresistible temptation—blessings (of wisdom, of mere presence) in exchange for immutable faith. It was a gaze that could draw out tempered limerence from even the most unmovable of men, and was a love for him, all for him, one that Prasenti would make use of both in due time and all the moments leading up to it. 

So used to wielding it, to making other’s bend to his will, that when Lunos did not, it left him confused and a little intrigued. In many ways, Lunos was his diametric opposite, and it began a strange mix of what he later learned was admiration and envy. 

It was difficult, letting go of old habits. Even Lunos was not immune to Prasenti’s habit of manipulation to get his preferred way, and yet he stayed even when given the lucidity that many of Prasenti’s followers did not manage to keep. Lunos stayed, despite everything. 

(Perhaps for him, love would no longer be a blade. Perhaps for him, it would be a gentle heart and gentle hands instead.)