Post by griffin on Jan 3, 2021 21:00:20 GMT
martell who by fire, | @isra |
When they bring her to him, he is sitting on the velvet-cushioned chaise, rubbing salve onto the new cuts that staccato his hands. Before him lays a rich man’s spread - bread and oil and soft white cheese, dates and honey and the small sweet oranges that grew on the coast. All is untouched.
He is staring out the window like the slim crescent moon is beginning to spell something for him, until she steps into the room. Then he looks up, and his eyes are dark and hollow, and there is still dust in the deeper creases of his tan face.
He gestures for her to sit beside him. She brings with her a sweet, faint perfume of jasmine and the bright turquoise sea, but he does not think he will ever be rid of the smell of blood and sweat and sickly breath. It lives in his nose the same way the images live behind his eyes, the same way all he decisions and all the death live in his heart.
At first he runs his fingers down her braid, but it reminds him too much of a hangman’s rope, or the reins of a stallion that will carry him to war.
“Isra,” he says, “Isra, mi estrella de mar-“ his hand lifts to cup her cheek, a shape too soft, too smooth to belong to anything but a woman. He drops his hand, and leans back against the couch’s back. His eyes close. “Tell me a story.”
He is staring out the window like the slim crescent moon is beginning to spell something for him, until she steps into the room. Then he looks up, and his eyes are dark and hollow, and there is still dust in the deeper creases of his tan face.
He gestures for her to sit beside him. She brings with her a sweet, faint perfume of jasmine and the bright turquoise sea, but he does not think he will ever be rid of the smell of blood and sweat and sickly breath. It lives in his nose the same way the images live behind his eyes, the same way all he decisions and all the death live in his heart.
At first he runs his fingers down her braid, but it reminds him too much of a hangman’s rope, or the reins of a stallion that will carry him to war.
“Isra,” he says, “Isra, mi estrella de mar-“ his hand lifts to cup her cheek, a shape too soft, too smooth to belong to anything but a woman. He drops his hand, and leans back against the couch’s back. His eyes close. “Tell me a story.”
