Post by max on Apr 27, 2010 10:18:21 GMT 10
Series: POTS
Rating: PG
Summary: Not even the most Yamani practical wives can cure romantics. Drabble.
How curious it is, he thinks, that half a page of words written on the soft, translucent rice paper she still favours over the more robust, ink-eating parchment he has used all his life (delicate and other, like her very own self; and he can see her in Queenscove, in the sea-side reading room where, in the wilder storms, the waves lash the windows despite the air between cliff-topped castle and ocean surface, writing with her finest calligraphy brush in her messy common (she has never quite been able to transpose the elegance with which she traces the characters of her own people to the script used across the countries of the inland sea, but there is something in the cramped and slanted letters that makes his breath catch when he thinks on it too long, anyway) and he can see her; wrapped in silken Yamani robe and thickly woollen Tortallan shawl, with her hair unmade and spilling down over her shoulder like water, candles, lit even though it’s not yet noon, casting wild plays of light and shadow over her full lips, the dark sweeps of her eyelashes, her unpainted, golden skin) can have such an impact upon him.
She isn’t here to say, it’s the tea, silly. That’s why I sent it to you and, ruefully, he thinks it’s just as well, can almost feel her gently exasperated cuff to his head at his damned eastern lovin’ as he presses the note to his lips (because he can see her, shaking her head at her own folly, doing exactly the same thing before taking the package down to the courier, imparting some of her jasmine fragrance onto the slip of brewing instructions with that butterfly-light touch of her mouth) and breathes a little of her essence in.
To tide you over she had ended it (no name attached), and, Quite, he can’t help but think. Smiling slightly. So it would seem.
Rating: PG
Summary: Not even the most Yamani practical wives can cure romantics. Drabble.
Neither wind nor rain
How curious it is, he thinks, that half a page of words written on the soft, translucent rice paper she still favours over the more robust, ink-eating parchment he has used all his life (delicate and other, like her very own self; and he can see her in Queenscove, in the sea-side reading room where, in the wilder storms, the waves lash the windows despite the air between cliff-topped castle and ocean surface, writing with her finest calligraphy brush in her messy common (she has never quite been able to transpose the elegance with which she traces the characters of her own people to the script used across the countries of the inland sea, but there is something in the cramped and slanted letters that makes his breath catch when he thinks on it too long, anyway) and he can see her; wrapped in silken Yamani robe and thickly woollen Tortallan shawl, with her hair unmade and spilling down over her shoulder like water, candles, lit even though it’s not yet noon, casting wild plays of light and shadow over her full lips, the dark sweeps of her eyelashes, her unpainted, golden skin) can have such an impact upon him.
She isn’t here to say, it’s the tea, silly. That’s why I sent it to you and, ruefully, he thinks it’s just as well, can almost feel her gently exasperated cuff to his head at his damned eastern lovin’ as he presses the note to his lips (because he can see her, shaking her head at her own folly, doing exactly the same thing before taking the package down to the courier, imparting some of her jasmine fragrance onto the slip of brewing instructions with that butterfly-light touch of her mouth) and breathes a little of her essence in.
To tide you over she had ended it (no name attached), and, Quite, he can’t help but think. Smiling slightly. So it would seem.