12.10.2011
Prompt/title: Warm Vanilla Sugar
Rating: T
Word count: 434
Caramel coloured limbs sprawl across the cold wooden table. Odd angles and discoloured patterns mar the usual lithe perfection of the once delightful form. A leg juts at right angles. Raspberry red slithers like warm conserve down an arm, over palest blue trails that are surprisingly firm to the touch.
Nimble calloused fingers falter, the healing glow sputtering, hand pulling back in surprise. The graceful swirls are more firm than he expected, like still warm taffy just under the skin.
The fingers resume their work, move back over the honey toned skin until the only remaining trace of the jarring red is merely a smudge on the surface, not even skin deep.
Attention now moves to the leg. It seems an affront to some god or another, or even the maker himself for such perfection to be spoiled so.
Softly glowing hands skim the surface, testing, shaping, gently warming and straightening the fractured limb until bone is as malleable as warm toffee. Almost reverently the Healer draws the dusky limb straight, noting the smooth warm texture, the dusting of fine white hair like vanilla sugar over a coffee biscuit.
Moving to the head of the table, those calloused gentle fingers slide hesitantly through hair as fine and unique as the most exquisite Tevinter fairy floss. Purest silver white strands that are almost metallic in the light emanating from the fingers caressing the scalp beneath.
The last of the offending imperfections disappear, bones cleanly knit, bruises the colour of over ripe plumbs fade back to pristine caramel. A delicate ridge of a cheekbone smooths back into perfection, a flash of emerald appears from under liquorice lashes, and something unintelligible is whispered on a breath of voice that is more decadent than the finest Antivan chocolate.
From rejuvenating sleep, lyrium lines flare, filling the healers' veins with euphoria, and a gasp escapes. For a moment he thinks he may cry from the beauty of the sound that only he can hear.
The eyes, those eyes that the healer now finds indescribably beautiful, flutter closed again, peaceful and relaxed.
The healer schools his features into vacant neutrality but before he turns back to his companions a sigh escapes, sending a huff of air to ghost across the moist mocha lips that may as well be an entire continent away.
Healing now complete he allows himself to slump, leaning against a wall. The foetid air of Darktown assaults his senses and he knows with absolute certainty that to sample the delights laid out of that rude wooden table would be as deadly as any poison known to man.