Work Text:
prompts taken from the lines “my temptations in your eyes, and the city of your grief.” by ibrahim el-kahwaji / “and if the devil was to ever see you, he’d kiss your eyes and repent.” by farouq jwaydeh.
It must be the high fever , Anastasia muses, and I am seeing things . The ache that is throbbing in her head does not feel as excruciating as before, but dysequilibrium has yet to abscond. This is not something new, the delicate health of her fitness has been a notable hindrance if she has been exerting the limit of her physique, becoming more reprehensible whenever she is to be chained to a state of being bedridden. Febricity is begetting delirium and haze dims her sharp faculty, otherwise there might not be a sensible reasoning that will elucidate Ellian's presence within an arm-length in her bed chamber, with head resting upon his folded arms at the paltry side of her mattress, breath steady indicated by the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders.
Time has long passed when she was unconscious before, as Anastasia glances over the room. Behind the drawn curtain, the noontide has collapsed in the wake of evening bloom, a drowning of mimosa sunset and night is burning amethyst. The manor is barren with the resurfacing of this hour, the usual bustling vigor has turned static, quarters are embedded with tranquil stillness. Anastasia adjusts her position a bit. Discarding cool washcloths from her forehead and hauling her upper body to rouse and place her back against the pillow; the cashmere blanket softly rustles in the adherence of her movement, deliberate so that she does not disturb his sleep.
The alarming rise of temperature of her body has been dwindling, though chills are still clinging to her limbs and back of her neck damps with perspirations. Candle wax pooled around the base of small candelabra; little flames flickered against dimness as ember light sweeps across Ellian’s countenance that is near her side. Few silver strands are tousled, no creases found tracing his mien and his lips part a tad bit. There isn’t any motion she creates for a time being, daring not to cause any ripple that would unsettle the interim. Summer did fit him, she once thought. Gilded heaven and white sun he personified; willows, nettle and daisies drifting down the river; the dip of his clavicles is a valley of golden illumination. The first time their path aligned in a brief respite, when the two of them were young and Anastasia’s fingers were stained with pomegranate red, his gloved hand a dove brought nigh to his chest.
She thus curls her digits inward. A foolish, sentimental notion she always deems—to allow this maudlin sensibility to sow its seed. But he is both the first of creation and the act of unmaking, a ruination to her. A temptation lies within his bones, this savagery of hers, and grief that is shattering. The cohesion of alphabets that regulates the internal soliloquy falls benumbed in her mind and Anastasia exhales. Nails graze the inside of her palm, muscle flexed due to an unfolding and curling of her hand. She feels herself becoming more senseless and half-mad, devastatingly so. Her affection has always been a violent thing, all teeth and corrupt and glorious in its ardency; her love a death sentence. There is no other way other than a spring of sweet sorrow and in her triumph, it is a fire that is consuming.
Anastasia begins to move to reach him, leaning down and hand brushing away his hair that strays from the view. There is a small stirring Ellian makes from her contingence, yet she advances still. Perhaps this is how the faithful devotees will whisper penance as a sacrament in a confession, appealing their amends.
Anastasia closes her eyes and kisses his closed lid.
Perhaps . An ephemeral touch, a repentance she enshrines in his skin.