This keening soul;
She comes, this girl-thief, who stole a stag’s antlers and a jeweller’s jewels, through the waves. Her tines arch, proud, upon her crown and the gems gleam, rich, upon her long neck. Leto watches as Torielle wades through the swelling waves that bow and bend.
They warn her, this thief-girl of earth and wealth. They warn her with hisses and stinging kisses that break into foam against her knees and abdomen and chest. But Torielle heads them little more than the grains of sand heed the warning arch of waves that come to crash upon the beach.
Leto watches as this strange girl, oddly fae, licks her lips, desirous. She would laugh, this shed-star-Ilati mix. And though she does not, a smile does find its place, languid, upon her lips. The antlered mare reaches for black skin, not like a kelpie with a carnal need for blood and meat, but like a girl pursuing something awe-inspiring. “Careful.” Leto warns as she seizes the mare in eyes of stars and moons and clashing planets. Stardust presses upon the girls like the sea thumbs her salt upon their bodies. The priestess-witch laughs, at last. It is the sighing hiss of the sea, the searing heat of stars burning through the atmosphere. And the star does not cease burning as it slips out of the bands of blue sky light. It falls like a silent comet, its smoke a dragon’s tail of black sparks rippling out in its wake. Careful, it repeats Leto’s warning in a voice of igniting air. It misses the bejewelled mare and crashes with a serpent’s hiss into the sea.
But by now Torielle is too close, too close. “Do you wish to burn?” Leto warns as she arches away like night before the first ray of dawn. But they are too close and her question was no question at all. It was a prophecy that whispered you will burn. The black woman is, afterall, the flame unto Torielle’s moth. They shall meet in fire and sparks and Torielle’s wings will burn. She longs for a god and will meet only the sun. She will fall like Icarus, down, down, down from Leto’s stars and watchful, galaxy eyes.
And so they touch. Black skin split by veins of glowing, white hot blood. They touch: black-universe skin upon brown-aspen. Will she Torielle light like timber? Like the trunk of a tree licked by a flame. Will she burn like a wild fire?
Leto reaches for her, wondering how she is burned, angered by her own regret for a girl that watches her, nears her with only desire and no heed of safety. Primal, feral, wild as a panther, the kelpie parts the water as she reaches out with her muzzle, hot like summer heat, absent of a flame’s keen burning. “You want to know of love?” Leto asks and presses her muzzle onto the thief-girl’s burnt skin, “then know of how it burns and disappoints. I am no mentor for you. I am no god. Do not follow any but yourself.”
@Torielle
Anyone! | "speaks" | notes:
