I just want to acknowledge that i haven't written for ages, and I blame my lack of creativity for that. So ye, here you go. It's set before the coronation when the internal conflicts have started up.
She enters wordlessly, crossing the dark space between the door and himself with steps so soft that they can barely be heard. Gently, She sets his plateful of food, still warm and fragrant, down upon the low table, and it too, nearly makes no sound. And he knows who she is far before he meets those beautiful, temperamental eyes of hers. They exchange a nod. It's always her, after all. She scuttles around the rectangular slab of tabletop, wedges herself at his side, the shell of her ear pressed against his shoulder. He shifts the book just slightly, partially so she can see better, but more so as an acceptance; a silent welcome. A warm quiet billows up to meet the faraway ceiling.
Soon, she grows bored of his readings. The laws of physics have never entranced her like they have captured him. He can tell by the way she grants his side ever more attention than the dust-lined pages. And so, he isn't surprised when she crosses the cold space before them again and vanishes into the shelves here, into the art section in particular. Be it sketching, drawing, or even sculpture with leftover melon skin, meticulously cut into perfectly fitting little pieces, she's always had a passion for visual art. Only recently, she completed an ink and dye work of a landscape dominated by black night and platinum stars that even Dantalion admired.
It is only a short while until she returns, a thin volume of dancers, painted or drawn with every kind of grace and movement. She spares a fleeting glance towards his untouched food, then makes herself comfortable again. Both silken legs are draped across a low armrest, upper back and head against him once more. It is a wonder that she finds this comfortable, he muses. She flicks about the more central pages and settles on a chapter with more pictures than words, though she is perfectly capable of reading. None of the figures there hold their own as he compares them to her. How can they? He watches her eyes skim the page, quickly, but always lingering. He watches her eyelashes twitch and quiver, aglow with the fire of the lamps and candles on this corner of the library. Deep inside, he feels the stirring of something warm. Almost smiling, he returns to his book.
She arches her neck backwards, book flopping at an odd angle against her stomach. The top of her head nudges firmly at his arm and she twists his gaze into his. He knows what she's going to say even before she opens her mouth.
"Solomon, your dinner is getting cold," she's wrong. His dinner is already cold. He says nothing, watched her swallow ripple down her exposed neck. She's going to tell him what's been happening around the table, who won which card game, what stupid dare Ithnan got Ugo to perform this time. She's going to smile animatedly, fill their orb of light with a crisp cheer, unable to let this comfortable silence stretch on. He is wrong, and he realises it as she shifts to sit up straighter, removes her legs from the armrests to place shoed feet flat on the floor. "You...have been coming here more and more often, you know, and everyone's..."
She trails off, places a soft hand on his forearm. He knows what word remains unspoken. "And. I was just thinking, you shouldn't let the other species and the magicians get to you, it's not, it's just not-"
He cuts her erratic tirade off with his own hand utop hers and a flush creeps up her jawline, painting her cheeks to an impossibly finer finish. She closes her still-open mouth.
"You worry too much," he says with the same reassurance that she squeezed his arm with, just moments ago. "I don't come here just to get away from the crowds or to think about those things. I do that enough. I come here for you, Sheba." For a moment, she doesn't understand. He can see it in the crease between her brows, the pout about her lips. And then it's gone. He removes the hand, traces her sculpted cheekbone and flawless jaw with a feathery finger. There is a split second of perfection, and then: "You worry wart. If you keep at this, you'll turn into one. A wart, I mean." And just like that, the moment is shattered. With spontaneous accuracy, she blindly swipes at him with her book, hair askew with life, pages flapping everywhere. He chuckles, repeatedly dodging around the small space of the couch.
And through it all, she is happy. Because he is smiling, laughing genuinely, something that is happening increasingly less often.
Excuse this style of writing. I felt like it.
Be nice and review?