Tandavi

I'll light a fire in your new shoes.

For a moment she thinks he might soften, that he might bend, that the subtle inclination of his head may continue its honey flow down his spine - but he does not, and it does not, and the girl is struck by the lack of it honesty in his porcelain face. He reflects her like a mirror: he smiles, but it is tight and without any warmth, an afterimage of her own vibrancy. Though he has always been a paler star to her ardent sun, there is something about it which bothers her today. Laughter flutters and falls on her lips, mirth replaced by curiosity, incredulity, the tensing of muscles into a frown.

Her ears flick backwards to the fox upon her back, but he offers no insight- at least, none she is willing to hear. Selfishly, silently, she wonders why there is strain in his eyes; she is hurt by the perceived slight, subtle way he draws away simply by refusing to come near. She ignores he brother's protest, his insistence that she has done the same to him, to everyone. She sees his coldness as a rejection of her warmth; his question is an accusation, though he speaks as softly as ever, and the girl's face grows almost stormy, her voice almost dark.

"Would it be wrong if I have?" she asks him softly, the crackle of embers accenting her words. She is not angry, not quite: more prying, demanding, her voice a challenge, her expression a dare. From his place on her haunches her brother starts, surprise and recognition lighting up his eyes- for in that moment Tandavi is more her mother than she has ever been, and Natraj is afraid to tell her so. He leaps from her copper hide, whining, inching toward Caneo in an attempt to ease the tension, to bridge the invisible gap.

Somehow, they have yet to notice the snake.

But Natraj's actions strike a chord. Her heart beats faster, harder, a sudden rejection of easy melancholy rising in her breast. The girl is ardent as ever, though it is a different kind of boldness, not mirth but something less innocent, something that wants. She wants him to smile, wants him to laugh, wants him to want her - not her body, but her soul.

She wants him to dance with her, to melt like snow against her side- and to this end she gambols forward, her body a warm thing of edges and embers, her hair wild and luminous in the forest's murky dark, her endless eyes transfixed on Caneo's face. One step, and she stops, but their bodies are closer, his scent is stronger. She does not want to be let in past his defenses: she wants to shatter them, to leave them in ruins, smoldering and useless in her wake. For a moment she is a creature of fire, a thing possessed-

"I'd never run away from you, Caneo," she breathes- and behind her words is something else, a promise, a plea, a protestation of innocence, a reminder that they have done this already, that they are already close; a confession of something she cannot name.