Not anymore. She answers him with swirling ripples of that dream sea between them. Her words are sails, silk and sea-foam satin that strain and sigh against that whiplash of wind made by their wants and their dreams. The brush of their skin feels like both her hull an her anchor as she sails, adrift on that sea awhere she could drown in him.
Dive deep, Isra's wants whispers in satin and straining ropes,
dive deep and we can walk together on the bottom of the sea. We could find the core of everything.
And when they walk between the fires that dreaming sea turns golden and molten and the fire feels cold against the heat between them. Isra sighs into that heat and leans her cheek against his as they move. She wonders at the way it's an easy gesture to make, how pulling tight the ropes between their ships is as easy as breathing (as easy as being a unicorn).
Isra follow Eik's gaze as if she is the tail to his comet, all the dust and debris left behind fire and light and beauty. When he says
life she turns to watch a merchant laugh with his whole body between the arches of his stall that are still crusted with salt and seaweed.
Sound has her humming along with a song sung by the children they pass. Her lips vibrate fiercely when she presses them into his mane when the song reaches its chorus. The furls of her mind brush against him too. They call to that thing in him that causes the thing in her to bloom and root in the soil of their ocean-bed like wire into flesh. Isra wonder what words he might sing to the tune of her lips, if he can sing at all.
She wants to sing, and sing, and sing of tomes and tomes of stories and religions until the whole court is drowning in this dreaming sea of theirs.
Until they are all---
Drowning.
Her humming never ends as he talks, although she's still listening, so intently that her ears ache for listening to his words, his breath, his heart, the sound his hooves make on stone. And oh, oh, oh! Eik says
dreaming and then
mystery and her story-teller sails catch a breeze. Isra laughs, slow and sultry (although she has no idea that huskiness of her voice is anything but nerves and wants and almost-worry). The salt that's ever-present on her lips tastes like honey and gold as she brushes her lips across his brow, his ear, his nose, his lips.
“Who would you be,” Isra's lips sting like a phantom limb (surely these brave lips are not her own) as she coos her words to him both with ripples of that sound-less, drowning sea and the bell-toll of her real voice that whispers fables more than it whispers truths.
“If this was a dream and we could be anything or anyone?”
Dive deep, and deep and deeper. Her sea-foam sails say on that golden sea and the silence between them suddenly feels more alive with life than the night market could ever dream of being.
ISRA OF THE SEA-FOAM SAILS ;
“Let your soul & spirit fly, into the mystic.”
