[ A daughter of purpose - if that the purposes were broader. To be soft - to have her hands painted in the lotuses she has preordained herself in. To paint her brow in the crescent moon and star, once more, to hang her fingers in gold even as she broaches underneath the heavy veils that - aren't right. Stifling perhaps for their warmth because veils she had worn, at the heat of the deserts she ruled the edges of, once, meant the cloth was light. Adjusting herself where she lays on her side, legs curl loosely against the cushion.
Sits, there, like she is comfortable being that alone, and kept she can at least pretend to be. When he reaches for her glass, without speaking she ventures her hand out from the material, bracing her fingers about his - not touching, too much right now where her head is a ember like memories. Warm, warm with chimes and laughter and light, of players on stages as they sung, the bell wraps at women's ankles as they formed in steps of Gods and Demons and great acts of heroism and love. Tinged at all the edges of her thoughts. But hold too tight, she knows, it will burn too. Him or her, apparently there wasn't much difference anymore.
Rather she keeps them just above his and with that moment of holding the cup, not to stop, merely pause him as she turns to him with the washed over polite thanks of her mind where she has not yet learned to keep this closed. Finally away from the performance that has held her enraptured so easily. Giving him her attention, fully, that hum of the symbiote letting her know she has a found another of the same king. With it, to let him know she wants his attention.
A deep breath, does not want to speak, she figures - she figures it plays into being unknowable if they do not speak. But she is looking at him now, unmistakable even behind the cloth - and she always looked too much, but never a little, never got that habit of lowering her eyes - Lady Lakshmi, you should not be so open. - before at him completely before she lowers her hand, sure that he is listening. ]
(Will you bring me another?)
[ For a moment, he has her utter attention. Then like someone as used to it, she slides her attention away again, back to the play of lights. ]
no subject
Sits, there, like she is comfortable being that alone, and kept she can at least pretend to be. When he reaches for her glass, without speaking she ventures her hand out from the material, bracing her fingers about his - not touching, too much right now where her head is a ember like memories. Warm, warm with chimes and laughter and light, of players on stages as they sung, the bell wraps at women's ankles as they formed in steps of Gods and Demons and great acts of heroism and love. Tinged at all the edges of her thoughts. But hold too tight, she knows, it will burn too. Him or her, apparently there wasn't much difference anymore.
Rather she keeps them just above his and with that moment of holding the cup, not to stop, merely pause him as she turns to him with the washed over polite thanks of her mind where she has not yet learned to keep this closed. Finally away from the performance that has held her enraptured so easily. Giving him her attention, fully, that hum of the symbiote letting her know she has a found another of the same king. With it, to let him know she wants his attention.
A deep breath, does not want to speak, she figures - she figures it plays into being unknowable if they do not speak. But she is looking at him now, unmistakable even behind the cloth - and she always looked too much, but never a little, never got that habit of lowering her eyes - Lady Lakshmi, you should not be so open. - before at him completely before she lowers her hand, sure that he is listening. ]
(Will you bring me another? )
[ For a moment, he has her utter attention. Then like someone as used to it, she slides her attention away again, back to the play of lights. ]