He could feel her heartbeat, butterfly light and fluttery against him. She was warm, her skin flushed with a pale red hue that suffused the surface of it, tiny droplets of sweat clinging to the crevices between her fingers, inside the lines of her palms. Her heart pitter-pattered like a bird's, rapid and indignant, forceful.
Her eyes were wide, so wide he could see the pupils in the very center, tiny pinpricks of black amid twin orbs of Luna moth green.
His own hands were cold, his hands wrapped inside hers, her spider hands, thin and muscular and lithe. There was warmth there, too, and warmth in the faint trickle of blood from the wounds that slashed jaggedly across on her narrow, pale shoulders, etched across arm and calf and torso. It looked almost beautiful, the blood and the powder gold of the skin, the hair that spilled lightly as silk, lightly as spider webs over her shoulders and collarbones.
Delicate, delicate she was, but sinewy as a cat, stretched bonelessly against his chest. He felt the wiry muscles wrapped around the bones in her arms, felt the solidness of the torso that pressed against his own.
Her breathing came regular, more even than her rapid-fire pulse.
A tiny rivulet of crimson beaded at the very edge of her mouth, her half-opened mouth, gasping with shock, no time to feel pain. No time to feel the wounds. No time to feel anything but the beating of her heart, her butterfly, butterfly heart. He reached a finger over, caressed the outline of the frozen, moist lips that trembled slightly as he wiped the droplet off. Even this blood was warm, a miniature, enclosed capsule of living, beating life.
She uttered a half strangled moan as he lifted the blood to his own mouth, his own tongue, stained his mouth with red, she shook her head and gave a cry as tiny and wavering as an infant mouse, wobbling and pathetic. A plea for what? The taint was hers, the taint was his, and they'd share it together. Together for eternity. And now, now her body trembled, convulsed in agony that must have dulled from experience, eyes glazed over, frosted and shining like mirrors of bottle green glass.
No comfort to be found for her at this moment.
Her eyes were wide, so wide he could see the pupils in the very center, tiny pinpricks of black amid twin orbs of Luna moth green.
His own hands were cold, his hands wrapped inside hers, her spider hands, thin and muscular and lithe. There was warmth there, too, and warmth in the faint trickle of blood from the wounds that slashed jaggedly across on her narrow, pale shoulders, etched across arm and calf and torso. It looked almost beautiful, the blood and the powder gold of the skin, the hair that spilled lightly as silk, lightly as spider webs over her shoulders and collarbones.
Delicate, delicate she was, but sinewy as a cat, stretched bonelessly against his chest. He felt the wiry muscles wrapped around the bones in her arms, felt the solidness of the torso that pressed against his own.
Her breathing came regular, more even than her rapid-fire pulse.
A tiny rivulet of crimson beaded at the very edge of her mouth, her half-opened mouth, gasping with shock, no time to feel pain. No time to feel the wounds. No time to feel anything but the beating of her heart, her butterfly, butterfly heart. He reached a finger over, caressed the outline of the frozen, moist lips that trembled slightly as he wiped the droplet off. Even this blood was warm, a miniature, enclosed capsule of living, beating life.
She uttered a half strangled moan as he lifted the blood to his own mouth, his own tongue, stained his mouth with red, she shook her head and gave a cry as tiny and wavering as an infant mouse, wobbling and pathetic. A plea for what? The taint was hers, the taint was his, and they'd share it together. Together for eternity. And now, now her body trembled, convulsed in agony that must have dulled from experience, eyes glazed over, frosted and shining like mirrors of bottle green glass.
No comfort to be found for her at this moment.