History exists in a constant circle, doomed forever to go through the same motions in a different dress, dance upon the ballroom floor and leave its partner dizzy with déjà vu. The girl, though young, possesses some faint and indistinct knowledge of this truth; and so it is not surprise which overflows from her lips at the sight of him, but a resigned, yielding, yet somehow invigorated "Of course."
She whispers it into the space between them, and to herself, and to no one, for her brother does not wish to hear the unspoken words and uncertain feelings, not today, not for this. He had nearly forsaken her as she made her way to the uncertain woods, encouraged only by the lingering hope that time and distance has cured her ailment, her distressing preoccupation with him. He knows what she seeks, even if she does not; and he loathes it, even as she does, though without the frightening passion which toes the line between loathing and something else, something more, something unspoken and savage and raw.
Natraj does not listen to dark words murmured against the pillars of shivering stone. He stands, a statue with hackles raised, cautioning and crying against his sister's mind- but there is no turning her down now, no denying the electric attraction she feels to this boy, the need within her to wrap her neck around his body and crush him into the ground. Fire dances imperiously upon shoulders of the waif as she strides, purposeful, measured, eager, toward her awaiting prey. Copper child is aggravated, itching and in pain from the festering growths which stain her auburn sides. She is weary, is wanting, is hungry for release. She can feel her fury rising, a tidal wave of oppressed emotion, a growing ball of famished fire which threatens to burn them both to a crisp, beautiful and frightening and altogether far too bright.
"You," she whispers into the silence, and raises her head to reach its full height, every inch of her begging him to just try and take her in a fight.
Her hooves clash boldly against his stone, in brazen defiance of the tell-tale scent he has left, again, upon the floor. So often an ember, a warm ray of sun, he gives her the fuel to burn hot and white, cast herself away from her shell and emerge an inferno, bright and untamed.
She has been Sultana.
She has saved lives.
She has fought against a god, and she wears the scars, the boils, to prove it.
She is the Fire Dancer, and he is nothing- nothing but a nightmare, a memory, an itch she needs to scratch out of her skin, even if she tears her flesh and exposes herself down to the beating heart in the process.
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