Word Count :: +300
She only swallowed a few token morsels, then left the rest hanging in the fence for him. It was not the neatest of meals, it had to be said. But who cared? They weren't in a Royal Court now. And in truth, the Cour des Miracles had no particular tendency for airs and graces anyway. She had yet to encounter any canine, bipedal or not, that had developed any level of pretentious table manners, besides allowing others to feed before oneself. She quirked a brow at him, a sidelong glance wondering why he wasn't taking advantage of this very favour - she would leave him all that was left, now - but Augustus was settling back and seemed like he had a story on his lips. She flopped down on her stomach, chin dropping onto her forepaws, resigning herself to listening to whatever convoluted escapade the scruffy male could relate. But minutes into his tale, she found herself lifting her head again and gazing steadfastly at him, offering him a more open and sincere expression than she'd given anyone for a while. His parting gifts. Hers had been only silence.
"An exiled prince," she muttered, eyes hooded. "Just like a story." There was his sarcasm, but she was less intensely scathing now. She supposed she herself was something similar, if you counted an aggressive and grandiose tyrant warlord as a king simply because he liked to exert force over absolutely everything he met, and dressed it in a sham of propriety. She had to admire her father though, although he was a stranger to her, and she was only an exile because her own heart had insisted. Augustus wore his pain on his face, true, but she could only assume that such also lingered in his soul, which was the harder of the two to heal. "So I suppose you will now venture on a romantic quest to find your heart's desire?" She gave a low wuff of mirthless laughter, licking a few spots of rabbit blood off her jaws.
Image courtesy of ®DS @ flickr; Table by the Mentors!
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