i tasted shadow long before i ever knew the light.
Gentle as a swan-song, she moves in the night beside him. Careful. Delicate. Like Thomasin isn’t sure she wants to be seen, yet she so desperately wants to be known. And it is a terrible thing to know Alecto, for he is, perhaps, truly unknowable – especially by night when it is so easy to be nothing more and nothing less than smoke and shadow. Golden eyes flick her way, watch intently as the blush fades from gingerbread cheeks and she shifts her body away from him. Not as though she is disinterested, for doe-ears tilt his way and pewter doe-eyes are wide and intent, the direction of her horn unchanging with him as her sole target.
He pretends not to notice. Alecto looks back to his cup and pours more from the teapot, left thoughtfully sitting above a candle, into the delicate porcelain before him.
Dancers laugh as the fire between them gurgles and cackles with glee. Their bodies weave a story into the night, move the smoke with magic and joy until figures dance within it, too. They remind him of the great bonfires of home, of Attune and her envy, of Tienar and his secrets. Everyone has secrets, every story is riddled with words that are never said. Things to ferret out and unveil if you’re truly invested. As much as his body longs to join in the fray, to press into the sides of another, feel their warmth and revel in their arms, their midst, for just one night, he does not.
His mischievous mouth twists ruefully as he takes another sip. Listens to another beat tap-tap-tapping on the drums, keeping time for a people he is a part and apart of. The stars of his skin dance as, at last, the unicorn comes forward in a cloud of spice and sweetness. The flour on her knees is ignored, the smile she wears is mirrored. Open, kind, sharp, inviting. He is a wolf, and he is hungry. “My dear little lamb,” he states with a dip of his head. “I could accept only if you’d offer your company for a time, too? Desserts would not be so sweet unless there is another to share them with.” His voice is as gentle as the wind, as thunderous as a summer storm, flashing in with a rumble, rolling out long after he’s stopped speaking.
A brow lifts, it always seems to at some time or another, and he pulls the chair beside him out, inclining with his chin that she take a seat. “Please, offer miss…” a glance, the other brow raises at the absence of a name, “my friend whatever she’d like to drink. I’m happy to oblige her this evening.” And their kind host seems to know what Thomasin likes well enough, for soon another pot is placed above a candle, delicate flowers that match those along her ribs (such soft, beautiful bent structures, like spires into a world all her own) painted within the cup. Alecto nods his thanks and pours Tom her tea.
“I’ve always enjoyed fire dancers,” he whispers beside her, looking back to the coven before looking back to Tom. “But they pale in comparison to you,” the compliment is water between them, drifting on the current, finding its way from one to the other. Looking then to see if she would blush once more, the man offers a smile, a shrug as though it were the simplest of truths that she should already know. Movements jostle the ring about his neck just so, the silver of it, the dragon stone heart of it, seeming to laugh and devour the look of the flames as they glanced off the two.
There is a magic to her that his home would appreciate even if his father would not. His sister would have eaten the little lamb whole.
