02-04-2014, 08:57 AM
Reaniimation followed rejection. Dane felt like Frankenstein's monster while the townspeople were both abhorred and fascinated with him. As well Aria should be: Dane was bloody fascinating. If she weren't clinging to his ankles, then there was something utterly wrong with her head.
She toyed with the idea of answering his question. Perhaps she listened to the sound of a loving parent's advice playing in her memory: mothers told their daughters not to trust strangers. She was right, if so. Aria should not trust him. He was utterly and completely insane, after all.
Dane's patience was infinite. He was tuned to every flicker of her eyes and every curl of her fingers. She was conflicted, but more importantly, she was frustrated with that conflict.
When she finally revealed the place of her residence, a sweet smile stretched slowly across Dane's face, ear to ear. The image of her climbing old steps; Aria fiddling with the lock of an ill-fitting door; the scent of dusty books seeping like smog through the floorboards; a mildewed bathroom and stained mirror; the place she thought herself safe enough to strip naked to bathe. Did she surround some clawfoot tub with candles? Did she smear liquid or bar soap across her body? Did she sink beneath the still surface of a filled tub and wonder when would be the night she finally drown in it?
Dane could help her - he was a gentleman after all, and Aria a delicate fruit. Should a leaf fall from the trees overhead and land on her skin, it was likely to leave a bruise. Dane would gladly serve her on such an occassion. He'd run the water. Gather the candles. He would be her King Arthur and she would be his very own Lady of the Lake. A mystic corpse whose pale skin was wrinkled with the long soak; Aria floating just under the surface until the bubbles ceased erupting.
He was a flat river of imagination. His emotions, the surface a dull mirror, but deep beneath, an eager, willing companion. When he accepted the slip of paper, their fingers briefly touched, and a flash of Aria's hesitation filled his mind. Brief though the clarity was, he knew it was not the last of their bond. He guarded the treasured gift in a pocket and nodded in agreement. "You are right, my dear. It is not safe."
How right she was.
The spirits of the watching dead seemed to agree. The wind suddenly howled like they were sending her warnings. It whipped his coat against his legs, and rustled the locks of lordly hair around his eyes. On that cue, Dane turned on his expensive heel and strolled away, and left Aria to lonelier company.
For now.
She toyed with the idea of answering his question. Perhaps she listened to the sound of a loving parent's advice playing in her memory: mothers told their daughters not to trust strangers. She was right, if so. Aria should not trust him. He was utterly and completely insane, after all.
Dane's patience was infinite. He was tuned to every flicker of her eyes and every curl of her fingers. She was conflicted, but more importantly, she was frustrated with that conflict.
When she finally revealed the place of her residence, a sweet smile stretched slowly across Dane's face, ear to ear. The image of her climbing old steps; Aria fiddling with the lock of an ill-fitting door; the scent of dusty books seeping like smog through the floorboards; a mildewed bathroom and stained mirror; the place she thought herself safe enough to strip naked to bathe. Did she surround some clawfoot tub with candles? Did she smear liquid or bar soap across her body? Did she sink beneath the still surface of a filled tub and wonder when would be the night she finally drown in it?
Dane could help her - he was a gentleman after all, and Aria a delicate fruit. Should a leaf fall from the trees overhead and land on her skin, it was likely to leave a bruise. Dane would gladly serve her on such an occassion. He'd run the water. Gather the candles. He would be her King Arthur and she would be his very own Lady of the Lake. A mystic corpse whose pale skin was wrinkled with the long soak; Aria floating just under the surface until the bubbles ceased erupting.
He was a flat river of imagination. His emotions, the surface a dull mirror, but deep beneath, an eager, willing companion. When he accepted the slip of paper, their fingers briefly touched, and a flash of Aria's hesitation filled his mind. Brief though the clarity was, he knew it was not the last of their bond. He guarded the treasured gift in a pocket and nodded in agreement. "You are right, my dear. It is not safe."
How right she was.
The spirits of the watching dead seemed to agree. The wind suddenly howled like they were sending her warnings. It whipped his coat against his legs, and rustled the locks of lordly hair around his eyes. On that cue, Dane turned on his expensive heel and strolled away, and left Aria to lonelier company.
For now.