[ He lifts her again and she is pliant in his arms. Breathless when he kisses her, a thing of helpless little gasps and sounds that clings, that whines quietly when he has to move away to take off her boots.
It is not until he kisses her nose and draws away that she is stirred from her reverie; the incongruous innocence of it bringing her back to herself. Her eyes flutter open, and she glows. Smiles at him under summer sky eyes as if she had slept and wakened and there was no-one in the world she would rather find herself next to, and wrinkles her nose sweetly.
Then she watches him; raising herself on her elbows in the blankets, her gaze tracing over the lines and shapes of him as he reveals them. Looking at the way the last light brushes highlight, pools in shadow, shifts and plays over him as he moves, intent and still as she is in the moments between choosing the land she will paint and when she begins to mix the colours she will use to save her sight of it forever.
And she loves him. She loves him like she loves the sea: because he is beautiful, and because she must. Because it was written in her bones when she was made.
Perhaps it was before she was made. Perhaps Thedas is the dream of gods, and somewhen, far away, unbeknownst to himself, the God of Mischief dreamed her into being. Dreamed another self for her, and finally has come to find her for himself.
Perhaps not.
But to Alexandrie it does not matter how a thing is true, it only matters that it is.
When he has bared himself and sits by her, traces figures across her skin as her husband was wont to do when he wrought his magic, when he was nervous, the runes are different. Not all of the patterns are. For a moment her eyes shine with tears of recognition, but she is smiling, and they do not fall. Instead she blinks them away, and sits up slowly to reach for him. To touch his hair, his face, run her fingers— uninterrupted now— along the slope of his shoulders, down his arms. To take his hands. Tug at them gently. Pull him to her as she sinks back down. ]
no subject
It is not until he kisses her nose and draws away that she is stirred from her reverie; the incongruous innocence of it bringing her back to herself. Her eyes flutter open, and she glows. Smiles at him under summer sky eyes as if she had slept and wakened and there was no-one in the world she would rather find herself next to, and wrinkles her nose sweetly.
Then she watches him; raising herself on her elbows in the blankets, her gaze tracing over the lines and shapes of him as he reveals them. Looking at the way the last light brushes highlight, pools in shadow, shifts and plays over him as he moves, intent and still as she is in the moments between choosing the land she will paint and when she begins to mix the colours she will use to save her sight of it forever.
And she loves him. She loves him like she loves the sea: because he is beautiful, and because she must. Because it was written in her bones when she was made.
Perhaps it was before she was made. Perhaps Thedas is the dream of gods, and somewhen, far away, unbeknownst to himself, the God of Mischief dreamed her into being. Dreamed another self for her, and finally has come to find her for himself.
Perhaps not.
But to Alexandrie it does not matter how a thing is true, it only matters that it is.
When he has bared himself and sits by her, traces figures across her skin as her husband was wont to do when he wrought his magic, when he was nervous, the runes are different. Not all of the patterns are. For a moment her eyes shine with tears of recognition, but she is smiling, and they do not fall. Instead she blinks them away, and sits up slowly to reach for him. To touch his hair, his face, run her fingers— uninterrupted now— along the slope of his shoulders, down his arms. To take his hands. Tug at them gently. Pull him to her as she sinks back down. ]