"Come with me, Sacre" the girl begs, breathless and ardent in the predawn gloom, her belly full of butterflies and her dark eyes full of fire.
Speed dating was.... inspiring. Days later, and the girl still flutters with the memory of appealing adulation, luscious laughter, of looks and thoughts formerly foreign to the unsophisticated girl. Had she ever flirted before that evening? Been praised and exalted with honest aplomb, dallied and teased, played the coquette? No- she has lived to quietly, too terribly aware of her many sins without reciprocal sensitivity to the virtues she wields. She is a creature of gangly limbs and waif-like frame, slender and angled, not quite belonging in this world. She is not beautiful- or so she believes. But Reichenbach's frank appreciation evoked something new within the girl, and how she cannot help but wonder, Is that who I am?
It is not a question Reichenbach can answer.
She leads him up the winding trail, her body and baubles a beacon in the darkness. Copper child glitters with embers and anticipation; she cascades light and dances in fire, and her figure is cut with shadows. She hopes it is enough, and tries to linger close to Sacre, to be his lantern, his illumination, his guide. Natraj bounds around her hooves, contributing with wild whips of fire, more a demonstration for Riona's benefit than offering of helpful luminescence. The girl speaks little, content to listen to the chatter of foxes and the whisper of wind; she is building her thoughts, savoring her words, preparing a soliloquy of sentiment and inquisition- preparing, in short, to flirt.
They crest the ridge as the first shades of dawn begin to emerge, kitsune running ahead to hunt for early risers in the grass, equine following, her bronze and aureate figure drifting purposefully toward the eastern edge of the vacant meadow. The breeze is pleasant, even up here, even now; she smiles as it plays with her hair, dark eyes closed as she steels her nerves. When she looks back at Sacre her expression is sanguine; what, she wonders, could be better than this? The sun peeking coquettishly over mountains and sea, the pleasantry humming of a happy bond, and him, her friend, here by her side.
Now all she needs to do is flirt.
Fire Dancer swallows, mouth suddenly dry. All the sweet adulation and clever wit flees her mind like so many mice; she is suddenly lost, drowning in the blue of his eyes, the gentleness of his face, the familiarity of his figure. How can she possibly verbalize the things she yearns to tell him, the myriad of feelings she cannot properly recognize, let alone convey? What made her think such things could be trivialized down to flirtations and coy smiles? She is not a creature of coyness, of subtleties, of artful phrases and cunning words. She is blunt; she is hot; she is fire.
"I'm glad you came. I wanted-" she begins, but stumbles, lips snapping shut, heat rising to her cheeks. Tandavi turns away from him then, dark eyes seeking the rising symphony of sunrise, moon-slashed face twisted in an expression of self-conscious embarrassment. This was a stupid idea, she realizes now. Sacre isn't Reichenbach, and she isn't special, and, and, and...
And you're an idiot, Natraj drawls through their bond, amusement and exasperation clear in his mental voice.
"I wanted to watch the sunrise. Here. With you." Tandavi finishes lamely, eyes still on the rising sun, tail flicking anxiously and ears turned back for any sign of reply. Her attempt at flirtation has failed miserably; Reichenbach would be ashamed. But this is the girl, and it is all she can offer - nothing provocative, nothing libidinous. Just Tandavi.
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
