I suppose I have always been a heartless man. Not even my unending love
for Schala counts for having a heart in this world. They will always look
at the blood on my hands as I cradle a scythe, or the shadow in my eyes as
I cast spells. They will never see the kind side.
And I don't want them to.
She, however, the barbarian, could draw it from me. Probably because with her, it is a game. She never thinks I'm mocking her, never thinks I mean to harm her. She truly thinks she can protect herself from anything.
I have found, by sleeping close to her around a dying campfire, that she clings in the night to whatever warmth she can find. I imagine this is a learned behavior from the age before magic, from the age when man and dinosaur shared the world. I will lie wrapped in my cape and she will roll, roll, roll until her hair wisps across my face. The golden curls a true testament to an inner, feral beauty that no time period could change.
Next comes the strong pinkish arm, thrown over me like I'm the kill she is to drag to her hut. Most times a leg follows, having come out from under whatever extra piece of cloth someone has loaned her for a cover. In the fading red embers, just the curve above her thigh is visible, a line to tempt man into reaching out and pushing the gray furs she wears up just a little higher until her flesh gets chills from exposure. And I am tempted.
Then she will purr. The very sound a man would dream of in a lover. The very sound that lets him know he is a god above all others because he has made this sound rattle in this woman's bones. But let's not speak of gods, because all it is, really, just my fingers and nails, scraping against the toned muscle.
She never speaks until she wakes up. Never groggily calls me by the name of her so-called husband back in the land time forgot. Because he doesn't have long nails and cold hands, does he, strong one? He can't make you purr and shift and burrow yourself into the ground until one green eye opens and you see whom it is. It is I.
Sometimes, when she wakes, I want to stop right there. When she wakes, so does her mouth, and the purr subsides while she chatters in a broken tongue. If I'm lucky, my mouth on hers will quiet her. There have been times my jaw was sore for days because I could not shut her up the entire time without kissing her.
Tonight she is more subdued, however, her eyes sparkling in the dying light. She wants to feel beautiful tonight. She wants to feel delicate. Perhaps I really am the only person who will ever understand this side of her and allow her to become it without compromising her pride.
I let her speak three words before I know without a doubt this is what she wants.
"Make Ayla beautiful."
And I don't want them to.
She, however, the barbarian, could draw it from me. Probably because with her, it is a game. She never thinks I'm mocking her, never thinks I mean to harm her. She truly thinks she can protect herself from anything.
I have found, by sleeping close to her around a dying campfire, that she clings in the night to whatever warmth she can find. I imagine this is a learned behavior from the age before magic, from the age when man and dinosaur shared the world. I will lie wrapped in my cape and she will roll, roll, roll until her hair wisps across my face. The golden curls a true testament to an inner, feral beauty that no time period could change.
Next comes the strong pinkish arm, thrown over me like I'm the kill she is to drag to her hut. Most times a leg follows, having come out from under whatever extra piece of cloth someone has loaned her for a cover. In the fading red embers, just the curve above her thigh is visible, a line to tempt man into reaching out and pushing the gray furs she wears up just a little higher until her flesh gets chills from exposure. And I am tempted.
Then she will purr. The very sound a man would dream of in a lover. The very sound that lets him know he is a god above all others because he has made this sound rattle in this woman's bones. But let's not speak of gods, because all it is, really, just my fingers and nails, scraping against the toned muscle.
She never speaks until she wakes up. Never groggily calls me by the name of her so-called husband back in the land time forgot. Because he doesn't have long nails and cold hands, does he, strong one? He can't make you purr and shift and burrow yourself into the ground until one green eye opens and you see whom it is. It is I.
Sometimes, when she wakes, I want to stop right there. When she wakes, so does her mouth, and the purr subsides while she chatters in a broken tongue. If I'm lucky, my mouth on hers will quiet her. There have been times my jaw was sore for days because I could not shut her up the entire time without kissing her.
Tonight she is more subdued, however, her eyes sparkling in the dying light. She wants to feel beautiful tonight. She wants to feel delicate. Perhaps I really am the only person who will ever understand this side of her and allow her to become it without compromising her pride.
I let her speak three words before I know without a doubt this is what she wants.
"Make Ayla beautiful."