#dunloving

[uvatha]

Aina

[uvatha]

♪ ((a little late, as usual))

((Not really!))

"Me and Bobby McGee," Janis Joplin

Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose, Nothin' don't mean nothin', honey, if it ain't free. Yeah, feeling good was easy, Lord, when he sang the blues, You know feeling good was good enough for me, Good enough for me and my Bobby McGee.

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Aina lay full-length among the heather, her dark hair spread out around her like a cloud. She had kicked off her boots and was burrowing her bare toes into the cool earth, eyes closed and a little smile playing about her lips.

Uvatha sat nearby, back against a scrubby birch tree. Watching her, as usual. Watching her, and smiling.

They were supposed to be hunting. That was the reason they'd given for this excursion, anyway. But so far, neither had shown any inclination toward responsibility or productivity.

The morning was far too fresh and so beautiful, a light mist hanging nacreous about the hills and the sweet scent of dew and damp earth and green things lingering in the air. Not far out of the village, Aina had simply started running for the joy of it, her dark hair streaming like a banner behind her and peals of light laughter ringing out like music.

Startled at first, Uvatha had grinned and broken into a rolling lope of his own, catching her up and then pacing himself to run beside her through the hills, leaping the boulders which jutted from the soil and splashing through the small rills and streams that crossed the landscape.

They had run together for what felt like hours and miles, running not towards or away but simply...because. Because she was young and beautiful, because he was old but still human inside. Because the air was fine and the morning fresh. Because they could. Because they wished. Because they were free, for just this little while, as the wind struck their faces and the ground swept by beneath their feet.

At last, however, Aina had slowed, her face flushed and her breathing heavy, and Uvatha had slowed with her. Finding this place, a tiny birch grove of the sort the Kaemulai thought sacred to Daenu, they had stopped to rest.

Uvatha drew in a long, unneeded breath, pursed his lips together, and began to whistle quietly. It was an old melody, sad but beautiful and light and lilting. Aina's tiny smile grew as she listened.

Eventually, they'd have to stand, they'd have to go about their hunt. They could not return empty-handed. But just for these few moments, this was enough. This was good enough, for now.

[uvatha]

Cheiloproclitic - Being attracted to someones lips. :Aina and Uvatha

((WELL then! Should be a fun one!))

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Uvatha sat in silence—of course—cross-legged on the floor beside Aina’s hearth. One hand held a length of antler, the other a sharp carving blade. Small peels and flakes of the hard creamy-pale stuff littered the wraith’s lap and a small animal, already recognizable as a canine of some stripe, was emerging between his hands.

But those hands had fallen still now. For long minutes the blade and the antler had simply been poised in mid-air, and for long moments no long curls of horn had fallen with the softest of sounds to the floor.

His head was tilted and his eyes intent, his mouth just slightly open. It was a listening posture, and an ever-so-slightly adoring one.

Aina, bare feet curled under her  in the chair and a heavy earthenware mug of some herbal tisane in her hands, had been speaking for some time now, relating to him stories of her life among the Maeghai.They were not all happy stories, what she told him. There was much pain and much blood in them. Well, so too did his own stories contain pain and blood. But among them were tales of kindness and sweetness and simple pleasures, too, and her lips curved into a smile as she told of these times.

The flickering light of the fire cast a golden glow across her rich soft skin and caught like sparks in her rose-bramble hair. Her cheeks were pinkened by the heat, and the soft red of her lips gleamed like rain-washed copper as she spoke.

He watched her speak as much as he listened to her, fixated upon her mouth as it moved and shone and twisted with smiles and with grimaces as her memories caught her up and carried her. And when she paused to sip from her mug and her mouth came away wet and warm and sweet with the honey-laced drink he gritted his teeth with a sudden surge of desire. He wanted to taste her, to feel those lips moving against him as they moved now in the course of her tales.

Blinking suddenly, he realized she’d stopped speaking. Pulling his eyes away from that soft divot at the top of her lip, he met her gaze. He’d have blushed were he able, for he saw a certain amusement in her eyes; her lips curved into a wicked sort of grin as she set the mug aside and crooked a finger in invitation.