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05-06-2014, 04:40 PM
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Despite the long silence, the time we spend watching one another is not awkward, and I find my eyes drawn along the muscular lines of his painted body, the golden tips of his wings. I find myself wondering what it must be like to have wings, to be able to soar through the skies and skim along the tops of the clouds. I wonder if he ever fights the urge to climb higher and higher, drawn like Icarus to the sun, curious and afraid of its brilliant light and warmth. I decide that he probably does not have such urges, our Czar - for he, unlike the rest of us, does not fight those silly mental battles. He is probably quite happy to be alive, probably desires nothing more than to stay so - and to taunt the great orb in the sky would do little to prolong his life. We, on the other hand, enjoy our dance with destiny. I notice that his eyes are pure gold, pupil-less, like mine. Does he spend the silence looking me over, taking in the gently curving musculature, the enticing way my banner falls along my nape, the small half-smile gracing my lips? Without the cues that the darker center of an eye give, it is difficult to follow his line of sight. Is this how it is when others look at me? Do they often wonder what I am thinking, what I am feeling, where I am looking, all because they are missing the subtle movements and dilations of those insignificant little dots? I blink as he stammers in response to my greeting, the half-smile stretching into a small, ladylike grin. I lower my gaze, watching him from under my lashes, the picture of the demure female. Ah, how lovely and pure his voice is! I have never seen such a brilliant shade of gold flare upon my retinas. "You aren't interrupting anything," I assure him. "In fact, I would enjoy the company." "Talk talk talk." |
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