Her eyebrows furrowed, hoping he was not unimpressed, or in complete distaste of her room. "Is it a disappointment that there are not more images and decoration?" Johanne worked with art all day; she carved images into her own skin, and she inked the flesh of strangers who desired to make their bodies more meaningful. Just as there was comfort, and the promise of a fresh start, on a blank page of paper, so too was there a silence and restfulness in having bare walls and uncrowded space.
"I suppose my writing is my ornamentation," she said, blushing, and yet not knowing why. Johanne had no cause to be embarrassed or ashamed; and yet she could not help but feel chastised for not living up to the expectations that Dariel had had of her. It was silly: immature, even, something she should have grown out of, but she was too used to thinking less of herself that it became second nature to assume everyone else was thinking less of her, too. "Yes," she said, looking confused, standing by the warming fire, as it crackled its way through the brittle wood. "I meant the room..." What else could he have thought she meant?
His eyes were bright, intense, as he gazed upon the lines and crevasses of her face. Looking down, embarrassed under his highlighting stare, she began to speak of nonsense and the superficial, relying on their irrelevance to protect her from the scrutiny that she had resigned herself to: but not just yet. She wanted a few more moments with Dariel where the world was warm, safe and easy, where her bones were not on display and where her insides did not have the possibility of being criticised. "My room is like yours? I suppose you stay with your family. The Solar Winds really do have good value for kina..." She trailed off, her eyes drifting up to look into the eyes of Dariel. And he was much closer than before.
"What are you doing?" Her voice was soft, low, shaky. She knew where his hands would wander. It was inevitable that his touch should shake her core every time they met. He had spoken of it as soon as he had brought her into his embrace. And it was with held breath that she watched his hands hover over her flesh, teasing, always promising a caress and then just avoiding her skin at that last moment. His eyes pierced her skin, as intensely as her stiletto did, and she let her breath out in a rush when he finally finally touched her. She looked down at the wound with him: it was bloody, raw. One could barely make out what it was. And Johanne thought he deserved to know.
"It's a scar of your hands," she whispered. Her voice was loud in the silence, with only their beating hearts and laboured breath in the room. His eyes drifted from the wound and met hers. Dariel's gaze was piercing, and sent a shiver down her spine. To know he had her blood on his fingers, his hands in her skin. It was an intimacy she could never have imagined. To share her scars with him would be the closest act she had ever performed with another person: even more than Joseph. Taking a deep breath, she told him of her scars, what she had done, and her heart. Her voice shaking, she was terrified as she spoke, but his blue eyes compelled her.
"When I fled that day in Fall, I was too scared to be around you. Your eyes..." She paused, looking deep into them. "They're ice. I could barely tell what you were thinking. Why you were thinking it. So I left, I ran, I escaped. But you did not fail to leave a mark inside of me: and so I made that mark on the outside of me, too." With her other hand, she took his hand that was caressing Syna and Leth, and brought it onto the wound. His flesh there stung, sliding over the sliced skin. Guiding his hand, she traced the lines she had carved in the order she had made them. "You feel that? You feel my open flesh, my warm blood? That's the shape of your hands, your gentle fingers, and whenever I look down at the bloody wound I think of the way you called me beautiful." She was smiling gently at Dariel. She did not mean to frighten him, to act strangely. She simply hoped he understood. This was something strange and out of the ordinary for Johanne. She needed him to meet her half way. Her straining, gentle voice held hope within it when she asked her final question, breath held.
"And now I will ask you: what do you think of my scar, Dariel?"
"I suppose my writing is my ornamentation," she said, blushing, and yet not knowing why. Johanne had no cause to be embarrassed or ashamed; and yet she could not help but feel chastised for not living up to the expectations that Dariel had had of her. It was silly: immature, even, something she should have grown out of, but she was too used to thinking less of herself that it became second nature to assume everyone else was thinking less of her, too. "Yes," she said, looking confused, standing by the warming fire, as it crackled its way through the brittle wood. "I meant the room..." What else could he have thought she meant?
His eyes were bright, intense, as he gazed upon the lines and crevasses of her face. Looking down, embarrassed under his highlighting stare, she began to speak of nonsense and the superficial, relying on their irrelevance to protect her from the scrutiny that she had resigned herself to: but not just yet. She wanted a few more moments with Dariel where the world was warm, safe and easy, where her bones were not on display and where her insides did not have the possibility of being criticised. "My room is like yours? I suppose you stay with your family. The Solar Winds really do have good value for kina..." She trailed off, her eyes drifting up to look into the eyes of Dariel. And he was much closer than before.
"What are you doing?" Her voice was soft, low, shaky. She knew where his hands would wander. It was inevitable that his touch should shake her core every time they met. He had spoken of it as soon as he had brought her into his embrace. And it was with held breath that she watched his hands hover over her flesh, teasing, always promising a caress and then just avoiding her skin at that last moment. His eyes pierced her skin, as intensely as her stiletto did, and she let her breath out in a rush when he finally finally touched her. She looked down at the wound with him: it was bloody, raw. One could barely make out what it was. And Johanne thought he deserved to know.
"It's a scar of your hands," she whispered. Her voice was loud in the silence, with only their beating hearts and laboured breath in the room. His eyes drifted from the wound and met hers. Dariel's gaze was piercing, and sent a shiver down her spine. To know he had her blood on his fingers, his hands in her skin. It was an intimacy she could never have imagined. To share her scars with him would be the closest act she had ever performed with another person: even more than Joseph. Taking a deep breath, she told him of her scars, what she had done, and her heart. Her voice shaking, she was terrified as she spoke, but his blue eyes compelled her.
"When I fled that day in Fall, I was too scared to be around you. Your eyes..." She paused, looking deep into them. "They're ice. I could barely tell what you were thinking. Why you were thinking it. So I left, I ran, I escaped. But you did not fail to leave a mark inside of me: and so I made that mark on the outside of me, too." With her other hand, she took his hand that was caressing Syna and Leth, and brought it onto the wound. His flesh there stung, sliding over the sliced skin. Guiding his hand, she traced the lines she had carved in the order she had made them. "You feel that? You feel my open flesh, my warm blood? That's the shape of your hands, your gentle fingers, and whenever I look down at the bloody wound I think of the way you called me beautiful." She was smiling gently at Dariel. She did not mean to frighten him, to act strangely. She simply hoped he understood. This was something strange and out of the ordinary for Johanne. She needed him to meet her half way. Her straining, gentle voice held hope within it when she asked her final question, breath held.
"And now I will ask you: what do you think of my scar, Dariel?"
