![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Alaine is mine, Kugan is ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
k_woman's and they've not had anything posted yet.
***** ***** *****
He wraps the tie tightly around the width of his hand. Over and over he squeezes it into a fist to feel his blood pump wildly against the creased stained leather. The cut and friction of those knots is all, he thinks, that keeps from flying apart entirely under the weight of emotions.
The post can not begin to deliver enough news, and already his memories become faded with familiarity. This tattered scrap is water in his desert. He pushes his face against his fist, scrubbing the ridges of flesh and suede over his eyes, willing it to feel like anything other than his own hand, to smell like anything more than leather and horse sweat.
He could look at it with merchant's eyes. The hide is second class at best, the grain not entirely even, and the dye work is common pigment and shows tell tale blotches that pronounce it apprentice's work. And it is worn, this particular scrap, creased and streaked from wrapping around a solid que of hair, and to a merchant's eyes it would be worth pennies new and nothing now.
But with his own private eyes he sees Kugan bargain for it with his first coins, flirting a little with the apprentices and their girls. He imagines Kugan binding his sun-striped hair into a neat and practical club that will escape in wisps and curls over the day, for all that he smoothes it with water to tighten the knots. Imagines Kugan scraping his chin with a blade to finish his ablutions, but only one morning in three, grinning into the mirror as he goes. He knows in his mind the shape of the words, and in his heart the strength of the promises that make this scrap a token. To his own personal eyes it was worth more than any other object, save only the letters that had accompanied it and led him - led them both - to those promises.
As his eyes fall closed he looses the knots. The edges leave livid lines in his skin and the burn of returning blood holds all his attention for a breathless second before his heart's constant ache reclaims its primacy. The fingers of one hand caress the stiff smooth bundle of letters beneath his bolster, the other remaims wound with leather. .Nothing can be enough to tie him here, not with the wide horizons of dream and hope calling to him.
Alain sleeps.
k_woman's and they've not had anything posted yet. ***** ***** *****
He wraps the tie tightly around the width of his hand. Over and over he squeezes it into a fist to feel his blood pump wildly against the creased stained leather. The cut and friction of those knots is all, he thinks, that keeps from flying apart entirely under the weight of emotions.
The post can not begin to deliver enough news, and already his memories become faded with familiarity. This tattered scrap is water in his desert. He pushes his face against his fist, scrubbing the ridges of flesh and suede over his eyes, willing it to feel like anything other than his own hand, to smell like anything more than leather and horse sweat.
He could look at it with merchant's eyes. The hide is second class at best, the grain not entirely even, and the dye work is common pigment and shows tell tale blotches that pronounce it apprentice's work. And it is worn, this particular scrap, creased and streaked from wrapping around a solid que of hair, and to a merchant's eyes it would be worth pennies new and nothing now.
But with his own private eyes he sees Kugan bargain for it with his first coins, flirting a little with the apprentices and their girls. He imagines Kugan binding his sun-striped hair into a neat and practical club that will escape in wisps and curls over the day, for all that he smoothes it with water to tighten the knots. Imagines Kugan scraping his chin with a blade to finish his ablutions, but only one morning in three, grinning into the mirror as he goes. He knows in his mind the shape of the words, and in his heart the strength of the promises that make this scrap a token. To his own personal eyes it was worth more than any other object, save only the letters that had accompanied it and led him - led them both - to those promises.
As his eyes fall closed he looses the knots. The edges leave livid lines in his skin and the burn of returning blood holds all his attention for a breathless second before his heart's constant ache reclaims its primacy. The fingers of one hand caress the stiff smooth bundle of letters beneath his bolster, the other remaims wound with leather. .Nothing can be enough to tie him here, not with the wide horizons of dream and hope calling to him.
Alain sleeps.
Tags:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
From:
no subject
From:
Re:
From:
no subject
From:
Re: