like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
Sheep flutter around them like butterflies trapped in the cage of a world in which only the two of them are free. Out of the corner of her eye Amaunet can see the white rims of their looks and the weight of their stares when they know her from the pits (and when they wonder why she has bothered to talk to their Regent). And perhaps, when she flicks her wings at them and tells them all to scurry away, their smiles give her away.
She is surprised when he touches her. It is a bold gesture for a faded Davke who stares longingly at a journal to do. When she returns the touch is hard enough, hot enough, that he might feel all her fire, all her teeth, and all the other things begging to rend him down into all the things he lost out in the desert full with the pounding of hooves.
Her heart, her brutal heart, howls at the thought of it.
“Death would not take me.” She laughs and there are a hundred nights spent around a fire in the sound of it. There is a joy, a wildness, hot enough to burn the world to ash in it. Amaunet does nothing by halves, and nothing with fear, and so she does not pause to wonder before pushing her hip against his and nudging him back towards the table.
She does not look for which journal held his attention because to her it does not matter. Paper is paper, leather is leather, and it all can burn in the right conditions.
The gold around her neck jingles, almost too sweet a sound for the look in her eyes, when she does not flinch from his question. She welcomes it. Her magic welcomes it with a dawn-gold blush across her skin as it reaches for every untethered thing in him, for every memory of how he had once been a dangerous thing in the wild desert too.
Amaunet pretends to ponder his question as she casts her eyes back over the journals and the sheep as if part of her attention had not always been on the butterflies trapped in the cage. When she turns back it is to slide a journal on the table towards him as if when she says, “everything, Jahin, I expect everything from you,” paper and leather are the only thoughts on her mind.
Fire does not care what feeds it, only that it is fed, and fed, and fed.
@Jahin
She is surprised when he touches her. It is a bold gesture for a faded Davke who stares longingly at a journal to do. When she returns the touch is hard enough, hot enough, that he might feel all her fire, all her teeth, and all the other things begging to rend him down into all the things he lost out in the desert full with the pounding of hooves.
Her heart, her brutal heart, howls at the thought of it.
“Death would not take me.” She laughs and there are a hundred nights spent around a fire in the sound of it. There is a joy, a wildness, hot enough to burn the world to ash in it. Amaunet does nothing by halves, and nothing with fear, and so she does not pause to wonder before pushing her hip against his and nudging him back towards the table.
She does not look for which journal held his attention because to her it does not matter. Paper is paper, leather is leather, and it all can burn in the right conditions.
The gold around her neck jingles, almost too sweet a sound for the look in her eyes, when she does not flinch from his question. She welcomes it. Her magic welcomes it with a dawn-gold blush across her skin as it reaches for every untethered thing in him, for every memory of how he had once been a dangerous thing in the wild desert too.
Amaunet pretends to ponder his question as she casts her eyes back over the journals and the sheep as if part of her attention had not always been on the butterflies trapped in the cage. When she turns back it is to slide a journal on the table towards him as if when she says, “everything, Jahin, I expect everything from you,” paper and leather are the only thoughts on her mind.
Fire does not care what feeds it, only that it is fed, and fed, and fed.
@Jahin
