Written for angelsmael
In a room full of mortals, our eyes meet; hazel versus green; like two dogs in heat, our beasts shriek.
Will you ever find the answer
Will you never touch the ground
We find ourselves not in a salon in Paris, or an opium den in London. Of all places, we first met after a dinner party in Leeds, England. I was looking for anything that meant something, and she was looking for a change. The irony was that we should both decide to spend a weekend at a minor knight's manor house in the remote outskirts of Yorkshire.
The young knight and his wife were in the parlour entertaining the other guests. The petit blonde Irish maid was pressed between myself and the wall; my tongue snaking out to lick her neck, and let her forget this ecstacy, when the grandfather clock extolled midnight. When she came gliding down the stairs in a dress of emerald green and silver trim. Her eyes caught mine; and for a moment we froze; time stopped. Reality ensued when the Maid looked me in the eyes; and she suddenly forgot herself. All the while, she watched. Features still and composed. When the maid rushes off to the kitchen; it is then she finishes her descent. With every step she takes, she is appraising me, studying me, dissecting me.
You do gladly feed your cancer
Do you hope to drag me down
"Good Evening"
"Is it? It's a little early to tell." And so she turns and exits in a whisper of green silk and twinking silver into the depths of the night; unbridled and unconcerned.
***
We find ourselves on a broken wall that traces the knight's little estate. I ask her if she is Invictus, and she lets out a laugh, rich and throaty.
I go on the defensive and foolishly rattle off their values, their fight, their importance. She listens to it all. When I have finished my lecture she turns, her eyes glittering in the waning moonlight, the mists rolling across the moors the perfect backdrop to her deceptively lithe form.
Hear my word
Feel my hurt
"That is all very well and good for your ego, but what of your soul?"
I laugh at her; believing she must be jesting, for surely, as the damned we have no recourse save to be damned. She laughs with me, disarmingly; as she begins to weave her tale. It as though she is a dear old friend and not a wicked little witch with a forked tongue. But, how sweet and plain she says them, somtiems with a smirk and sometimes with a fronw, she is a natural born orator; so few kindred are. It is a pleasure to hear her filthy lies about the precious Estate. And yet she seems to have the uncanny ability of knowing when and where to push, and just as I think that I will excuse myself, the subject changes.
Can't you see
We're meant to be
To pleastant topics, to art, to fashion, to anything save anything related to kindred and curses. We laugh our way through barbs and wittiscisms, straight until the world begins to lighten; and we hasten back to the manor like two children who are out past curfew.
Slaves to passion
Servants to fashion
That's the way that we wanna be
As find ourselves in the hallway, across from one another's door, I have to laugh to myself about how absurd this all is. As enchanting as she is, as enchanting as her ideas are, they really are impractical.
If I ever need a brother
I know I'll find a brother in me
In that moment of silence, she turns her eyes to mine, the glint in them all the more pronounced. Impish, perhaps. "Find me if your curiousity gets the better of you."
Do you sometimes need a sister
Something you will never be
"It won't, but thank you for the offer."
***
The only sound in my study besides the delicate scrap of pen on linen paper is the sounds of Manhattan snarling outside my window. The stars are the same as they were that night, but all else has changed. I shake my head as I read the words I never thought I would speak, let alone put to paper.
"Does your offer still stand?"
~~~~
Written fondly for Spyder. By no means should the representation of this entry lead any to believe that Spyder or her character Julia Kincaid are seducers to all things base. They're just drawn that way. :)
As a side note; this entry took me awhile to hammer out, as my limited experiences with Kincaid have happened at Cons; so my only resource for writing Kincaid was in the context of conversations with Spyder, and getting to know her personality, and searching for the kernels of truth within the rumor and the gossip about the character. So I leave you with my disclaimer that if the context or the actions of the parties involved seem odd; blame the circumstances. However, I take the responsibility for the writing myself. For better or worse, I had a blast writing this one.
Will you ever find the answer
Will you never touch the ground
We find ourselves not in a salon in Paris, or an opium den in London. Of all places, we first met after a dinner party in Leeds, England. I was looking for anything that meant something, and she was looking for a change. The irony was that we should both decide to spend a weekend at a minor knight's manor house in the remote outskirts of Yorkshire.
The young knight and his wife were in the parlour entertaining the other guests. The petit blonde Irish maid was pressed between myself and the wall; my tongue snaking out to lick her neck, and let her forget this ecstacy, when the grandfather clock extolled midnight. When she came gliding down the stairs in a dress of emerald green and silver trim. Her eyes caught mine; and for a moment we froze; time stopped. Reality ensued when the Maid looked me in the eyes; and she suddenly forgot herself. All the while, she watched. Features still and composed. When the maid rushes off to the kitchen; it is then she finishes her descent. With every step she takes, she is appraising me, studying me, dissecting me.
You do gladly feed your cancer
Do you hope to drag me down
"Good Evening"
"Is it? It's a little early to tell." And so she turns and exits in a whisper of green silk and twinking silver into the depths of the night; unbridled and unconcerned.
***
We find ourselves on a broken wall that traces the knight's little estate. I ask her if she is Invictus, and she lets out a laugh, rich and throaty.
I go on the defensive and foolishly rattle off their values, their fight, their importance. She listens to it all. When I have finished my lecture she turns, her eyes glittering in the waning moonlight, the mists rolling across the moors the perfect backdrop to her deceptively lithe form.
Hear my word
Feel my hurt
"That is all very well and good for your ego, but what of your soul?"
I laugh at her; believing she must be jesting, for surely, as the damned we have no recourse save to be damned. She laughs with me, disarmingly; as she begins to weave her tale. It as though she is a dear old friend and not a wicked little witch with a forked tongue. But, how sweet and plain she says them, somtiems with a smirk and sometimes with a fronw, she is a natural born orator; so few kindred are. It is a pleasure to hear her filthy lies about the precious Estate. And yet she seems to have the uncanny ability of knowing when and where to push, and just as I think that I will excuse myself, the subject changes.
Can't you see
We're meant to be
To pleastant topics, to art, to fashion, to anything save anything related to kindred and curses. We laugh our way through barbs and wittiscisms, straight until the world begins to lighten; and we hasten back to the manor like two children who are out past curfew.
Slaves to passion
Servants to fashion
That's the way that we wanna be
As find ourselves in the hallway, across from one another's door, I have to laugh to myself about how absurd this all is. As enchanting as she is, as enchanting as her ideas are, they really are impractical.
If I ever need a brother
I know I'll find a brother in me
In that moment of silence, she turns her eyes to mine, the glint in them all the more pronounced. Impish, perhaps. "Find me if your curiousity gets the better of you."
Do you sometimes need a sister
Something you will never be
"It won't, but thank you for the offer."
***
The only sound in my study besides the delicate scrap of pen on linen paper is the sounds of Manhattan snarling outside my window. The stars are the same as they were that night, but all else has changed. I shake my head as I read the words I never thought I would speak, let alone put to paper.
"Does your offer still stand?"
~~~~
Written fondly for Spyder. By no means should the representation of this entry lead any to believe that Spyder or her character Julia Kincaid are seducers to all things base. They're just drawn that way. :)
As a side note; this entry took me awhile to hammer out, as my limited experiences with Kincaid have happened at Cons; so my only resource for writing Kincaid was in the context of conversations with Spyder, and getting to know her personality, and searching for the kernels of truth within the rumor and the gossip about the character. So I leave you with my disclaimer that if the context or the actions of the parties involved seem odd; blame the circumstances. However, I take the responsibility for the writing myself. For better or worse, I had a blast writing this one.