Rosamund's body was being filled with spices…
"Rosamund's body was being filled with spices…"
They sat, huddled around the little campfire, talking merrily, drinks and cigarettes in hand. Portia watched as Blanche sat back in her little canvas chair, her thin little cigar balanced between her fingers, eyes staring unseeingly into the fire. She looked up suddenly; catching Portia's gaze, the ghost of a smile flickered across her mouth as she caught the younger woman staring at her.
"Blanche," someone said, forcing her attention away from the other woman, and back to the little group. "Tell us a story wont you?" one of the men asked.
"Oh yes please do," said another, "Gibbons is boring us all to sobs," he smirked, sending a ripple of laughter among the men. The little group around the campfire all started pleading her jokingly, but it was Portia she was looking at. The other woman sat back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest, smiling.
"Go on then," she coaxed. Blanche smiled a little and tossed the end of her cigar into the fire and stood up.
"Okay," she smiled. "This," she said, looking unblinkingly into Portia's warm dark eyes, "is the story of Isis and Osiris."
And thus Blanche began to tell the tragic love story that belonged to Isis and Osiris, the King and Queen of the Egyptian Gods. Portia watched, mesmerised as Blanche told her tail, the soft orange fire light making her bright eyes sparkle, her skin glowing warmly, as she enchanted the group with her beautiful tragedy, and the tail of the Goddess's love and loss. She seemed to come alive as she lost herself in the beauty of her story.
Blanche padded barefoot around her little tent, listening to the soft wind that seemed to be running circles around the tent, tidying away various papers and books before she began to get ready for bed.
"I enjoyed your story earlier." She turned to find Portia standing in the doorway.
"I'm glad," she said. "It's one of my favourites."
"I could tell," Portia smiled, "I could see it in the way you told the story. Your passion for your work is one of the things that I admire most about you." Blanche smiled.
"One of the things?" she asked. "Are there more?" Portia looked at her seriously.
"Many." Silence hung between them for a moment. A strong gust of wind shuddered through the little tent, making them both shiver.
"Gibbons thinks there is a sand storm on its way," Blanche said, going to look out at the flap at the darkening campsite. "You should go back to your tent. Take shelter."
"I would rather stay here, and wait it out with you." Blanche looked up at her. "If that is alright with you," Portia added.
"Of course." Portia shivered slightly as a cold little gust of wind penetrated the gap in the now closed tent flap.
"You look cold," Blanche observed. "Here," she said, picking up a blanket from the end of her bed. She walked up close behind Portia and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. Portia turned so that she was facing her, the two of them now standing very close to one another, so much so that Blanche could smell the subtle scent of the younger woman's French perfume on her soft skin. Portia smiled.
"Thank you," she said, looking up into Blanche's light eyes. A little tightly coiled curl had escaped the constraints of Blanche's hairpins, and was hanging down the side of her face next to her eye. Portia reached up and gently brushed it behind her ear, her hand lingering at the side of her face. Blanche's lips felt soft, like silk against her own. She felt the woman's hands, flutter nervously down her arms, sending shivers of pleasure and anticipation down her skin, every nerve ending seemingly set alight by her paper light touch as she drew her gently closer. She felt her tongue against her lips, gently probing it's way tentatively to meet her own. Portia's body was being filled with spices, as she was guided slowly towards the bed, her heart racing, her mind whirring.