he's late. and it's irritating. without something to do, all she feels is that gnawing ache in her soul. the cloying feeling in her throat. her fingers are itching, telling her to grab lyune's ball and go. go as quickly as she can back to slateport and beg fernando to make it all go away. 

but he shows. 

she shifts her weight. "a banana - why?"

KING WAYLAND

☉

"you didn't exactly give me a meal plan," she snaps back hotly. his gaze is intense, so much so that it makes her want to raise her arms around herself, but she doesn't. she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. 

freya is lean. her appetite has been somewhat haywire ever since her first visit with king. most of her flat's fridge is filled with various proteins. thinking about her meat stew from a few days ago makes her stomach grumble.

her shoulders stiffen at his circling. eyes narrow. 

"is this completely necessary?"

KING WAYLAND

☉

the only way she's going to vomit is if he calls her darlin' one more time. her face scrunches, lip curling up past her canines. her own expression isn't an overexaggerated mask. 

she watches him out of the corner of her eye and then turns her cheek to the other side, refusing to let him out of her sight while he looks at her like a piece of meat. 

"trained professionals provided to me by - " FERNANDO SILPH . "the league."

KING WAYLAND

☉

it doesn't sting. after all, she'd come here for his help because she knew it wasn't enough. or is it something else? they'd never drawn blood before, not really. never enough to make her head ache for hours afterward, blood on her teeth and something pink slipping from her nose. 

( almost like they couldn't. )

his look degrades, shifting from calculable to...sleazy. before the words are half out of his mouth she's already leaping forward, darting in close before she thrusts a palm out to his face.

KING WAYLAND

☉

he lets her get in close. there is a triumphant flash over her mouth, but her face twists when king dodges quickly. less than a blink and her eyes are smarting. it feels like all of her organs have blasted away from the knuckles in her midsection. 

her breath comes out in a wheezing gasp and she sees black on the edge of her vision. 

distantly, she thinks, do not throw up. do not throw up. 

she is granted that mercy, at least.

but he moves past her and with no one there to hold her up, she crumples. her palms come out awkwardly to catch her and she heaves in unsteady gaits as her shocked lungs try to find a steady rhythm again.

"how is that - supposed - to help - me," she manages through a gasp. she staggers back up to her feet and stares at him a long moment before raising her fists again.

KING WAYLAND

☉

her 'excellent question,' in a perfect world, or even in a world that makes sense, would warrant her a professional pat on the back. instead, he kicks her knee in. she goes down with a pained yelp and a flush rises to her cheeks out of anger.

his analogy of hot stoves and fire makes her laugh through the pain though. she may not know combat or what it truly means to grapple for your life, but she commands dragons. their fire is explosive and unrivaled and it has snapped wildly at her, lashing and leaving scars. and she? she's only ever hungered for more. 

surely he wouldn't kill me.

swallowing most of her anger and her pain, with the heat on her cheeks having died down, she raises her head to meet his stare. he squats. that animal part of her, the one just under the seams of her skin, that presses and makes her hair stand on end when she feels danger. it keens lowly and tells her she may have gotten herself into a very bad situation. 

good. 

her stitches strain, but his handiwork holds fast (which she hates). so she gathers herself and scrambles away from him, putting enough distance so she can actually stand and watch for his next move. 

KING WAYLAND

☉