this is the first day of my life; leliana

[leliana]

I know what it is but I'm hoping that all is well
no harvest of green but it's still my heart to sell

She cannot pretend that she has not thought of him.

She cannot lie, even to herself, and say that he has not permeated her thoughts—her dreams turning serpentine in the way that the curve and turn onto themselves. There is something within her growing, she can feel it, the barest beginning of something that her gift curls protectively around. It is nothing but a seed now, nothing but the beginning of hope, and she holds it tight, clutching the idea of a child to her breast in earnest. She has longed for a child since she herself was one. She has longed to be a mother.

And now, this man of scales and fangs, has gifted it to her.

So, of course, she thinks of him.

Of course she dreams of him.

So perhaps it is not surprising that her thoughts are lingering on him as she stands near the river once more, the night air cool as it ruffles the crimson mane from her neck. She thinks of the strangeness of him,  the alien beauty, the darkness that seems to slip so closely to the surface. She thinks of the way her flesh broke open before his hunger, the skin splitting so quickly and the blood welling to the surface. It should scare her more than it does. The violence in him, the need—but it doesn’t. Instead, her pulse races.

It races even more when she feels his touch, a shiver racing up her spine in response.

It doesn’t bother her that he has stumbled upon her by happenstance, and she is not wounded by the faux surprise in his eyes. Instead, all she feels is the blossoming of something strange in her chest, her lovely face washed silver in the moonlight. “Vulgaris,” her mouth lingers on all of the syllables, drawing them out like honey as she greets him. “I am,” she is always alone, she thinks. For someone who longs for companionship, it is surprising how often she finds herself here: left to her own thoughts. “Are you?”

There is a part of her, bruised and battered and scarred, that expects another on his heels.

It’s what life has taught her, after all.

She doesn’t show such fears, such trembling insecurities, but neither does she reach for him the way that she wants to—the desire to trace his scaled neck bubbling in her veins. Her wings respond to his closeness by shifting, turning scaled and snakelike, pressing into her still-slender sides. Instead of letting her velvet mouth trace the shape of him, her hazel eyes trace the lines that draw up his face before coming to rest on his gaze, holding it as the silence between them grows, pulsing with things left unsaid.

I put everything I had into something that didn't grow
like going on a wild hunt, shooting arrows without a bow

@[vulgaris]