She laughed.
Because her eyes were cold, although not as cold; her lips in control, and yet unfrozen. She wasn’t made of stone. Her heart was a firelight, and it burned and burned like it always had. It was bright and warm… and lonely, because it couldn’t see past the light that it imprisoned.
Meanwhile her heart throbbed wildly and cried and curled itself in fluster, because letting someone in meant making space and she didn’t have much of that. Yet, it was mostly scared; she didn’t want to get hurt. I won’t, she thought, because he had already taken too much of her as it was. Stolen away, because she, that cold-eyes priestess, could feel, too. Perhaps surprisingly, her eyes were as cold as her heart was warm. Hell, she could maybe even feel like no other could, because if it wasn’t so, how else could she have managed to survive so long? How else could that wicked loneliness feel this heavy?
Her laugh echoed-echoed, echoed as if it ran away, she thought (she realized) as she hit replay in her head. From her, from him (running): Leaving behind her tongue, stripped down and left with mere silence when the sound had finally starved and gone. Away from the scenes of this strange road-twisting, skin-aching blue —night.
But nothing had really gone. He was still there; she was still there. The pupil of his eye was still a black hole sucking her in. Maren wobbled on her hooves, clumsily.
But perhaps this planet is flat, she thought at that instant, like a coin in the universe; the one she’d told him to throw. Yet, even though she had that knowledge, she kept sailing along. Maybe hoping that once she fell off the edge, fell through the fumes of his majesty, she would find a soft place to fall onto. And that was better than sailing on an everlasting sea on her own for forever.
So she sailed along further further further — plundering plundering—in search of that promised edge, that perfect fall. Her nose ventured on, trailed further along his cheek, leaving her damp sighs like a trail on his skin.
How could he be hers, she would’ve thought normally. But now, now his words… It had managed to sound rather… doable. Logical, even. As if it was something that could be easily achieved: Being his, because that was what it meant, right: When he became hers she would automatically be declared as his, too?
That’s reasonable, she concluded with wisdom prancing all over the place.
No words of protest came up at all as she felt the warmth of his skin against hers. She had simply been intrigued by their connecting whiskers: The prettiness, the sparkly-ness. Feeling his breath —Yours. Without spending words on asking for his consent, she buried her nose in the comfortable-looking gap where his cheekbone ended and his neck muscles started. Softly pushing gently because she felt like it —Or maybe because she was touched by his wish to be hers... And yet maybe because she was somewhere aware of the fact that she felt sorry that she simply wasn’t sure it was even possible.
But alas, she currently found herself in a situation where she was heavily denying reality. She was in a state where there was no confusion, no secrets, no lies. There was only the awareness of feeling at ease with him here, even draped in veils of shadows and mist, she trusted his words, felt his comforting warmth, the aching on her skin of a more primitive concept of wanting to just exist —And thus she said, in a hushed whisper as she smiled against his white fur, “I wouldn’t mind that.”
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[O] We fly as high as the flame will rise
