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She was never a dream he could see at hours of sleep. Ephemeral to the point of being almost transcendent, her body could’t allure him even if he was starved, poisoned or tricked — and yet, here they are: she in his bed and he by the open window. It could be lovely, to look at the curves of her fragile body. Columbine is made of moonlight, with every touch being so vivid on her pale tender skin like a poem written on canvas, a poem of total blasphemy recited by two creatures rejected by this world.
“Your thoughts scare them,” Columbina says, waking him up from the depth he always tended to dive after sex.
She lies about being blind, thinks Dainsleif without much sense. Moonlight licks her naked body like a cat licks her kittens — and again, Columbine is far from kitten, her claws are sharp enough to dig into someone's chest.
Dainsleif doesn’t remember if he liked cats; but ********** did.
“Who?” He lazily watches as a wisp of her dark hair slips from the bed onto the wooden floor. “Who do I scare?”
“Kuuhenki,” voice so gentle it can soothe pain almost physically. “They are allured by the energy of an act, but when you think too loud the abyss power seeps from your wounds and upset them.”
“How much do you see, actually?”
It’s not as if, after hundreds of years of a life worse than death, he could still feel shame. Little creatures could join them if they dare; but what he was sure about is that his abyssal marks, which Columbine so nicely called “wounds”, could’t be found by touch alone.
“I don’t know how others see,” she answers simply and softly. “So I can’t tell if I see less or more than you do.” Reddish kisses drift from her fragile throat down to little breasts and flat stomach and pale thighs. If there was a blade as tender as a cloud and as sharp as pain, it would be her. “But I see that you suffer.”
To despise gods so much and to fuck the goddess of moon. Isn’t it an act of trison towards his own beliefs? And yet, somehow her touches soothe the pain that burns endlessly under his skin, caged by the ring ********** gave him.
To be blind and still to see too much…
“I’m used to it as much as possible,” he ends up to answer.
Columbine looks at him for a moment longer, then rolls onto her back spreading her limbs into a star shape and starts to sing a song soft like silk. Dainsleif soaks in it, enveloped in strange warmth, and for a moment they appear — shining, transparent creatures lurking outside the inn — but vanish before his gaze reaches them.