The faint reek of cigarette smoke and spilt, cheap beer lingers in the air, clinging to the stained carpet and dingy drapes. The taste of the air is thick, dusty, mildly unpleasant, and the feel of decay nearly tangible. A mild stench of pain and fear wafts under the more obvious, physical stink. A moment's hesitation, moral reflex, before she recaptures that which she is now. No longer pitiable, but strong; willful, rather than logical. She shores her mental defenses against the weakness, steels herself to overcome ingrained habit, and takes a deep breath. She has no time to regret that before the door opens, and her vision is captured. She is captivated by the man, enamoured of him, even as the necessary fear overwhelms her.
They step inside; the smoke is thicker here, more herbal, with a flavour she has learned to call power. She craves it; for power, she will submit, conquer her fear. The touch of his fingers is rough, calloused, but soon other sensations overwhelm her. Even as he drinks - and she can feel it, the flux of power - he feeds a little back. The law of contamination - a little of one's personal power is left behind with every spell - a basic rule of magic, one that enables tracing spells. A part of her mind, separate, analyses that.
Too soon, it's over, and the little taste she's gotten has left her longing for more; power is addictive, that little scientific, logical voice inside of her notes. Then he turns to the other, leaves her alone, to imagine the taste of strawberries on her lips. Her brain keeps thinking - she never did learn to turn it off. Power corrupts, she decides; ruins what she used to long for, leaves it tarnished and broken. But she is distracted, then, by him; by his touch, and this time she takes in the power, feels it all around her, hot and heavy and about to break like a rain in summer, and then she is lost in the magic of it all.
The taste of strawberries is replaced with cream, thick, cloying, sugared. It is nothing like her usual spells; her partner was all softness and subtlety, exotic, a hint of shimmersweet mango, like nothing she'd tasted before. His energy is strong, rich, but undeniably banal, and quickly enough the thrill wears off. The cream clots, curdles, turns rancid in her mouth. The salty, metal taste of blood hovers in the air; she sees the stench of death. The power leaves her less than coherent, she realises, and feels the contradiction in that thought but doesn't take it personally. She's comfortably disconnected, and none of her senses work quite like they're supposed to.
Later, even the apathy and dissociation dissipate; she is normal again, and weeps for it. The pleasure has vanished, and the taint of spoilt cream refuses to scrub off. Surely it is visible, an oily film coating her, yet nobody says a word. She watches them, briefly; realises that they don't know, can't tell what she's done. That startles her, momentarily; they knew everything, once, noticed it all. They fixed everything up just right in time for the happy ending and the audience applause and then the next show came on. Not now; her heroes aren't so strong. She saved them, and once you've joined their ranks, you learn they're not so powerful after all. The power still beckons her, though, siren song of magic and control, and if they can't show her any, he can. So she goes to him, though she knows, fully realises, the transience of her actions. She knows, also, that any pleasure, any power, is better than none; if she can't dine on mangoes, she'll not deny the cream.
They step inside; the smoke is thicker here, more herbal, with a flavour she has learned to call power. She craves it; for power, she will submit, conquer her fear. The touch of his fingers is rough, calloused, but soon other sensations overwhelm her. Even as he drinks - and she can feel it, the flux of power - he feeds a little back. The law of contamination - a little of one's personal power is left behind with every spell - a basic rule of magic, one that enables tracing spells. A part of her mind, separate, analyses that.
Too soon, it's over, and the little taste she's gotten has left her longing for more; power is addictive, that little scientific, logical voice inside of her notes. Then he turns to the other, leaves her alone, to imagine the taste of strawberries on her lips. Her brain keeps thinking - she never did learn to turn it off. Power corrupts, she decides; ruins what she used to long for, leaves it tarnished and broken. But she is distracted, then, by him; by his touch, and this time she takes in the power, feels it all around her, hot and heavy and about to break like a rain in summer, and then she is lost in the magic of it all.
The taste of strawberries is replaced with cream, thick, cloying, sugared. It is nothing like her usual spells; her partner was all softness and subtlety, exotic, a hint of shimmersweet mango, like nothing she'd tasted before. His energy is strong, rich, but undeniably banal, and quickly enough the thrill wears off. The cream clots, curdles, turns rancid in her mouth. The salty, metal taste of blood hovers in the air; she sees the stench of death. The power leaves her less than coherent, she realises, and feels the contradiction in that thought but doesn't take it personally. She's comfortably disconnected, and none of her senses work quite like they're supposed to.
Later, even the apathy and dissociation dissipate; she is normal again, and weeps for it. The pleasure has vanished, and the taint of spoilt cream refuses to scrub off. Surely it is visible, an oily film coating her, yet nobody says a word. She watches them, briefly; realises that they don't know, can't tell what she's done. That startles her, momentarily; they knew everything, once, noticed it all. They fixed everything up just right in time for the happy ending and the audience applause and then the next show came on. Not now; her heroes aren't so strong. She saved them, and once you've joined their ranks, you learn they're not so powerful after all. The power still beckons her, though, siren song of magic and control, and if they can't show her any, he can. So she goes to him, though she knows, fully realises, the transience of her actions. She knows, also, that any pleasure, any power, is better than none; if she can't dine on mangoes, she'll not deny the cream.