MINYA
take that look from off your face
you ain't gunna burn my heart out
you ain't gunna burn my heart out
His gaze is different. Minya feels the warmth of it, so apart from the looks she is accustomed to. That gaze, those green eyes, take apart each piece of her they rest upon, he inspects, surveys and not for a moment is it desiring. Not for a moment does he watch her as if she is a jewel or enchantment as if he desires anything more than to simply know how she is made. There is no soft darkness in his gaze – there is nothing of the Scarab here. Not where the wind prowls off the mountainside and laughs as it whispers through her mane and into his.
She moves beneath his stare, she feels all the ways it is different and then, when her gaze returns to his, he smiles. Ebony lips pull back and teeth gleam like a flash of prongs. Oh.. It is fast, almost unseen, but Minya has grown up with tricks and lights. Her eyes are hawk-fast and she misses nothing.
The firegirl’s gaze lingers on his mouth. They slide along the curve of his lips and there is no part of her that trips into anxiety. Not when his smile curves and his eyebrow lifts and suddenly the woods are so alive in his gaze. At once she wishes to be amidst the whispering willows, to feel, not the gaze of admirers, but the brush of a weeping willow. She would dance and the only light was that of the silver moon. She would dance in its spotlight with only her moonshadow for a companion.
“Your teeth.” She murmurs, still in that woodland he takes her to. “Are sharp.” Firelight glitters along her lashes, dancing over the crushed gems that lie as fine as dust. Wildling the fire crackle, but she does not hear what they whisper, for she does not know what a wildling is. But over and over those tongues of fire betray him. Over and over they laugh and stutter and billow up in smoke.
He moves closer to the fire and the woodland is gone. She leans in, toward him, toward the fire, desperate to see that woodland again, but she does not step closer. Remembering herself she looks away, stepping closer to the flames that reach, desperate to lick along her skin.
Septimus.
His name hangs and she might have missed it, for he is smiling again and she is waiting but never does he smile enough to show his teeth again. She takes a breath, slow, slow, slow and the smell of incense rises from her skin, caught in the air. Oh the Scarab is never far from her.
His head tilts and she watches the hair that tumbles forward to hide his eyes. “You are far from Svarstell.” Minya says shortly, her words ice that not even her fireblood can melt. “This is world is Novus, this nation Denocte. The Court of Night.”
She trails off and the flames gleam in those silver eyes. She does not lift them from his own, the flames glitter within them, they challenge, challenge. “Unless you can fly home, you might be stuck here a while…” Her forelock tangles in her eyelashes, they cling to the gloss of her lips and along her flesh the fire illuminates her bright as embers. They make their dancer warm and welcoming.
They do what she cannot.
“Your teeth,” she says again not a fire-dancer, not the Scarab’s most prized performer, not the desire of Denocte men, but simply a girl in love with intrigue and desperate for a life she once lead as a gypsy girl, wooing eclectic audiences from worlds she can never begin to imagine. “Tell me what boy it is who comes here with the teeth of a predator, the eyes of wild-woods and yet the poorest sense of direction?” Her voice is whiskey and shadow. It is gilded gold pouring from her lips like champagne. She smiles and renders that champagne poor for her smile is diamonds and magic and the darkest beauty of the earth.
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@Boudika| "speaks" | notes: eee <3
