10-13-2025, 06:45 PM
She wasn’t surprised he followed her lead. Most people had trouble saying no to her, and even if he had tried, Litha was an infection. Playing with Sámiel in this mood was like coaxing a game with the darkness itself, or at least the beasts that dwelt within it. As he pulled deep from the bottle there was a glint in her eye that was part the flush of intoxication and part natural inhibition. She let go of his hand the moment she tugged him forward – he already got the point, and she wasn’t offering comfort for whatever bothered him tonight, just an outlet. When it truly came down to it, everyone was alone. Sámi of all people knew that just as well as she did.
Her feet stamped a beat into the dirt. Her hips rotated as she spun, arms aloft and uncaring. The shadows were set dressing, not somewhere to hide, and she used the meagre light naturally to her advantage. Yet if Litha was a woman who knew how to move her body and possessed a performer’s sensual control, she did not seem to concern herself with only looking pleasing. She was fast and free, and the more enmeshed Sámiel became in the ramshackle growth of music, the more wildly primal her movements and expressions grew. The rest of the world was obsessed with order. The Custody spread its vision for society like cancer. They all spoke the same language, dreamed the same dreams, aspired to the same white noise. Be beautiful, be rich, be powerful. Even the carnival had its traditions, but at least it embraced the dying embers of its wildness.
Sámiel’s chant threaded through her, and she lived in it, built on it – not just in song but in story. Her voice wove a macabre melody beneath and through his lead; trills and ululations and wild unbridled laughing when it suited her. Lalitha was a faerie’s dream. She’d dance until she was lost to it. Until her feet were nothing but bleeding stumps. All for that brief moment when freedom felt like a promise rather than trickery. It was the only thing worth wanting.
Despite the freezing cold she felt the sweat begin to bead on her skin. The sounds they made carried out into the mundane night, but no one came to investigate or watch. Maybe no one dared as the frenzy grew beyond performative to something frighteningly transcendental. It was absurdity and meaning. Emptiness and claiming. A vortex which would have consumed anyone foolish enough to wander close.
When he slapped his thigh with a deafening crack, Litha spun a final time and dropped like her strings were cut. For a moment she lay like a limp doll sacrifice, the echo of Sámiel’s deranged howling filling her ears as she caught her exhilarated breath. There were no stars above. Just crushing blackness. The power hummed maddenly at the edges of her senses, lost now, leaving only the unquenchable yearn for more. More what she wasn’t sure. Her head was spinning a little, but even that wasn’t enough to sate. Maybe Sámiel was the infectious one. It made her laugh.
Her feet stamped a beat into the dirt. Her hips rotated as she spun, arms aloft and uncaring. The shadows were set dressing, not somewhere to hide, and she used the meagre light naturally to her advantage. Yet if Litha was a woman who knew how to move her body and possessed a performer’s sensual control, she did not seem to concern herself with only looking pleasing. She was fast and free, and the more enmeshed Sámiel became in the ramshackle growth of music, the more wildly primal her movements and expressions grew. The rest of the world was obsessed with order. The Custody spread its vision for society like cancer. They all spoke the same language, dreamed the same dreams, aspired to the same white noise. Be beautiful, be rich, be powerful. Even the carnival had its traditions, but at least it embraced the dying embers of its wildness.
Sámiel’s chant threaded through her, and she lived in it, built on it – not just in song but in story. Her voice wove a macabre melody beneath and through his lead; trills and ululations and wild unbridled laughing when it suited her. Lalitha was a faerie’s dream. She’d dance until she was lost to it. Until her feet were nothing but bleeding stumps. All for that brief moment when freedom felt like a promise rather than trickery. It was the only thing worth wanting.
Despite the freezing cold she felt the sweat begin to bead on her skin. The sounds they made carried out into the mundane night, but no one came to investigate or watch. Maybe no one dared as the frenzy grew beyond performative to something frighteningly transcendental. It was absurdity and meaning. Emptiness and claiming. A vortex which would have consumed anyone foolish enough to wander close.
When he slapped his thigh with a deafening crack, Litha spun a final time and dropped like her strings were cut. For a moment she lay like a limp doll sacrifice, the echo of Sámiel’s deranged howling filling her ears as she caught her exhilarated breath. There were no stars above. Just crushing blackness. The power hummed maddenly at the edges of her senses, lost now, leaving only the unquenchable yearn for more. More what she wasn’t sure. Her head was spinning a little, but even that wasn’t enough to sate. Maybe Sámiel was the infectious one. It made her laugh.
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