10-18-2025, 08:37 PM
The sweat cooled quickly and immediately began burrowing reality’s cold claws. Yet like a piece of art Litha didn’t move from her fallen sprawl, not for a long time after; hair askew, limbs twisted where they had landed, breathing hard in the dirt. The remnant of the moment still lingered and she wasn’t keen to let it go, and definitely not with an audience staring down from above like heaven’s eyes. Though she wasn’t looking back at him but upwards at nothing, glazed as the afterglow faded.
When he bent like a withered tree to trace a line just shy of actual touch, her eyes finally moved to find him in the mortal plane. Sámiel looked like a skull in the dark. She didn’t move. Shallowed her breath like it was a knife not a finger. They’d known each other their whole lives and she wasn’t afraid, but it didn’t make him safe either. It was one of the things she liked about him though.
Her lips only twisted an amused smile for talk of burning. Unapologetic. Her eyes slitted sly.
“Hm, no,” she said at leisure, once he'd returned to squatting beside her like a predator. “I think we honoured them. Tonight they sleep soundly, knowing not all of us have forgotten them. Listen to them shiver and sigh over their full bellies as they drift back into the deep.”
And maybe the wind had become a little softer; an exhale more than scream. Or maybe not.
She pushed herself up to accept back the bottle and tipped it to drink with abandon, aware he was watching her and watching him back, uncaring. It burned pleasantly, pushed swimming heat into her limbs. She felt like she could float away. Some dribbled from the corners of her lips, in part because they pursed into a smile for the attention. Her eyes didn't waver from his. He was always two things, never certain between them, always searching.
“I think that is a trick question, Sámi. There is no difference.” She chuckled, used her tongue to lick the wet corner of her mouth. The bottle she placed between them, wedged it in the dirt amidst the drifting litter and stale popcorn. Always searching. But never finding.
Great Mami taught her all the Vero’s secrets, if a little begrudgingly because of her didikai roots. She loved that world of secrets and sometimes it felt powerful, like sneaking a glance beyond the veil. But other times it was just hollow mummery given substance from zeal. It was always as real as you believed it was, which was no answer at all. Lalitha was gravely superstitious as a person, but also sceptical of trickery. Her own life was turned sour by it, after all. Did she believe Renáta was right? Sometimes. But the truth was it didn’t matter. There was no way to prove her wrong.
At the witch comment she practically cackled in delight, head thrown back. Her laughter was easy. She glowed from the praise of being considered something so wildly fearsome. If that was what worship felt like she craved more of it. A stage surrounded by thousands, or a stage of dirt shared with a childhood friend, it made no difference to her. It was the act itself; unearthly, magical. Uncontrolled.
He fell back, laughing like a madman. Or perhaps like a prophet. “We are not nearly high enough,” she told him earnestly. Then she made a grandly sweeping gesture at the black sky above and fell back herself, laughing too. “Tonight we are so beautiful and terrible even the gods have closed their eyes. No sins count tonight.” She twisted onto her side, propped her head on her arm. The fingers of her other hand began idly tapping the glass bottle. She wasn’t often a still person, and especially not in this mood. “So tell me a secret, Sámiel. Something you’ve never told another soul.”
When he bent like a withered tree to trace a line just shy of actual touch, her eyes finally moved to find him in the mortal plane. Sámiel looked like a skull in the dark. She didn’t move. Shallowed her breath like it was a knife not a finger. They’d known each other their whole lives and she wasn’t afraid, but it didn’t make him safe either. It was one of the things she liked about him though.
Her lips only twisted an amused smile for talk of burning. Unapologetic. Her eyes slitted sly.
“Hm, no,” she said at leisure, once he'd returned to squatting beside her like a predator. “I think we honoured them. Tonight they sleep soundly, knowing not all of us have forgotten them. Listen to them shiver and sigh over their full bellies as they drift back into the deep.”
And maybe the wind had become a little softer; an exhale more than scream. Or maybe not.
She pushed herself up to accept back the bottle and tipped it to drink with abandon, aware he was watching her and watching him back, uncaring. It burned pleasantly, pushed swimming heat into her limbs. She felt like she could float away. Some dribbled from the corners of her lips, in part because they pursed into a smile for the attention. Her eyes didn't waver from his. He was always two things, never certain between them, always searching.
“I think that is a trick question, Sámi. There is no difference.” She chuckled, used her tongue to lick the wet corner of her mouth. The bottle she placed between them, wedged it in the dirt amidst the drifting litter and stale popcorn. Always searching. But never finding.
Great Mami taught her all the Vero’s secrets, if a little begrudgingly because of her didikai roots. She loved that world of secrets and sometimes it felt powerful, like sneaking a glance beyond the veil. But other times it was just hollow mummery given substance from zeal. It was always as real as you believed it was, which was no answer at all. Lalitha was gravely superstitious as a person, but also sceptical of trickery. Her own life was turned sour by it, after all. Did she believe Renáta was right? Sometimes. But the truth was it didn’t matter. There was no way to prove her wrong.
At the witch comment she practically cackled in delight, head thrown back. Her laughter was easy. She glowed from the praise of being considered something so wildly fearsome. If that was what worship felt like she craved more of it. A stage surrounded by thousands, or a stage of dirt shared with a childhood friend, it made no difference to her. It was the act itself; unearthly, magical. Uncontrolled.
He fell back, laughing like a madman. Or perhaps like a prophet. “We are not nearly high enough,” she told him earnestly. Then she made a grandly sweeping gesture at the black sky above and fell back herself, laughing too. “Tonight we are so beautiful and terrible even the gods have closed their eyes. No sins count tonight.” She twisted onto her side, propped her head on her arm. The fingers of her other hand began idly tapping the glass bottle. She wasn’t often a still person, and especially not in this mood. “So tell me a secret, Sámiel. Something you’ve never told another soul.”
![[Image: mat-lali-banner.jpg]](https://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/09/mat-lali-banner.jpg)