"Once," she tells him, and he would regard her a little differently, knowing the bravery that act requires, except he already knew she was brave. He felt it in that split second their souls met.
Does he find himself searching? For death, no.
He had craved death for the longest time, but he owed it to the dead to keep living. And so obligation kept him alive, if only barely. He took it out on his skin, that ragged flag of a once-proud nation. His scars burn with memories of the self loathing that drove his body to break against the rocks like the waves of the ocean he loved so much. He imagines the snowflakes sizzling into steam as they hit his body and a chorus of dark voices laughs at him from within his skull-- he closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them.
His attention drives at the woman before him. to keep the bad thoughts at bay. At first glance she is not particularly eye catching, but the details-- the blue of her eyes, the scales reflecting the snowglare, the expressive curve of her muzzle-- the details he could lose himself in.
They stand close enough to smell the clover on her tongue and the woodsmoke on her skin and some other scent he cannot put a figurative finger on, the sort of scent you would need to taste before the word comes to you. This close, the steam of their breathing rises like a curtain between them. It clears for just a moment here and there when they inhale-exhale in synchronicity.
(a sudden rush of desire- He wants to feel her skin on his lips, he wants the word for that last scent)
He remembers what it was he was searching for tonight. What his magic was pulling him towards, before he even knew to look. It was her soul, singing to his in the way only a kindred spirit knows how. He wants to reach out with his magic once more, for when it comes to pain and sorrow he is a glutton like no other-- but something holds him back. Something like fear, of what he does not know.
"Your song brought me here." He had never much appreciated music- the beating of drums, in particular, stir up strange thoughts in his head, and his heart, stirring to race the pulse of the music like a colt who can't stand to lose, forgets to keep it's own time. But her lullaby was not the drum-beat mania of tribal music, and it was not the music sung round the fire to forget how long and dark the night is. Her song was a story and a beacon, and it drew him across miles of sand into the snow-bright night where buffalo sleep like strange shrubbery.
Even in the near-silence, he imagines her lullaby drifting across the night. He thinks idly of sirens and songs that lead men to their death... It suddenly seems to him as good a way to go as any.
"May I touch you?" He asks with his mind, a soft knock on her door. How odd that even after nine years of life, nine years of striving for consistency and order, he can still say and do things that surprise himself. He is grateful then for the lazy curtain of steam that partially veils his face.
Does he find himself searching? For death, no.
He had craved death for the longest time, but he owed it to the dead to keep living. And so obligation kept him alive, if only barely. He took it out on his skin, that ragged flag of a once-proud nation. His scars burn with memories of the self loathing that drove his body to break against the rocks like the waves of the ocean he loved so much. He imagines the snowflakes sizzling into steam as they hit his body and a chorus of dark voices laughs at him from within his skull-- he closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them.
His attention drives at the woman before him. to keep the bad thoughts at bay. At first glance she is not particularly eye catching, but the details-- the blue of her eyes, the scales reflecting the snowglare, the expressive curve of her muzzle-- the details he could lose himself in.
They stand close enough to smell the clover on her tongue and the woodsmoke on her skin and some other scent he cannot put a figurative finger on, the sort of scent you would need to taste before the word comes to you. This close, the steam of their breathing rises like a curtain between them. It clears for just a moment here and there when they inhale-exhale in synchronicity.
(a sudden rush of desire- He wants to feel her skin on his lips, he wants the word for that last scent)
He remembers what it was he was searching for tonight. What his magic was pulling him towards, before he even knew to look. It was her soul, singing to his in the way only a kindred spirit knows how. He wants to reach out with his magic once more, for when it comes to pain and sorrow he is a glutton like no other-- but something holds him back. Something like fear, of what he does not know.
"Your song brought me here." He had never much appreciated music- the beating of drums, in particular, stir up strange thoughts in his head, and his heart, stirring to race the pulse of the music like a colt who can't stand to lose, forgets to keep it's own time. But her lullaby was not the drum-beat mania of tribal music, and it was not the music sung round the fire to forget how long and dark the night is. Her song was a story and a beacon, and it drew him across miles of sand into the snow-bright night where buffalo sleep like strange shrubbery.
Even in the near-silence, he imagines her lullaby drifting across the night. He thinks idly of sirens and songs that lead men to their death... It suddenly seems to him as good a way to go as any.
"May I touch you?" He asks with his mind, a soft knock on her door. How odd that even after nine years of life, nine years of striving for consistency and order, he can still say and do things that surprise himself. He is grateful then for the lazy curtain of steam that partially veils his face.
@Isra <3
Time makes fools of us all
