With his back turned to her, without his gaze on her, she can move. And she does, through the dissipating spirits, the cloth of her skirts whispering like wind over tall grasses, ending in gentle pressure against the back of his calves. The gentle pressure of her cheek turned to rest between his shoulder blades against the tension there, one arm curving around his waist, the other angled to rest its hand spread and flat on his chest.
For a moment, Alexandrie breathes, the light swell of it rising against his back. Falling away.
"If it is so unavoidable, this curse," she says, low and quiet, "why do we not have done? To what end, the thousand cuts, when a single heart-thrust might do? Why play to the desires of an absent Maker? Why, flayed so, did Andraste still sing?" She stares off, her focus soft, seeing only the shapes of light and grey.
"Perhaps because part of the tearing is that sometimes we touch it. We stay, and bleed, and peel strips from ourselves and those we love because sometimes..." The echo of laughter, then. The murmur of conversation, and lively music; violin, cello, piano, and beneath it her voice. "Because sometimes it is good."
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For a moment, Alexandrie breathes, the light swell of it rising against his back. Falling away.
"If it is so unavoidable, this curse," she says, low and quiet, "why do we not have done? To what end, the thousand cuts, when a single heart-thrust might do? Why play to the desires of an absent Maker? Why, flayed so, did Andraste still sing?" She stares off, her focus soft, seeing only the shapes of light and grey.
"Perhaps because part of the tearing is that sometimes we touch it. We stay, and bleed, and peel strips from ourselves and those we love because sometimes..." The echo of laughter, then. The murmur of conversation, and lively music; violin, cello, piano, and beneath it her voice. "Because sometimes it is good."