"Would thou be so kind to braid our hair today?"
glimmer of morning dew osculates the annex of beauty cascading the morning hour. voiceless personality traces the sky with lengthily spools of light, protracting, pastel hues of dawn’s fervency resonating across the horizon. what a sight to behold — to observe within animacy — and to witness its transformation: a recurrent blessing.
not alone, yet not accompanied — the chamber is vacant, save the modest clamour of powder-room cabinets. he rests beneath the visage of a candid ceiling, bluntness of its contours a mere canvas of white. to paint it would spoil the protest, but the act of its renovation could provide an enticing competition — one neither would be willing to admit defeat. who is worse for their obstinacy? their stubbornness in answer would provide an eternal dispute. debating with a goddess never suited humanity.
a rummaging frustration carries over to the bed. she vexes herself, with whatever her obstacle may be. suppression of rage elicits dimples of lax cheeks, ardyn turning on side to gaze in the direction of a partially closed door. neither linen nor feather pillows are discriminate in their receiving his weight, a censored laugh climbing his disposition as he calls to the siren.
“ are you faring all right , in there — ? ” a grumble or two apprises his inquest. the door approaches closure from a supplementary push — ignoring — thus encouraging the caelum’s investigation. lungs reminisce the luxury of coverlet, momentarily reluctant to depart from its graces. nevertheless, distance is condensed — a moderation of bare ankles — and appendages offer guidance of barrier. the door concealing the ocean’s sovereign, goddess and mother is opened via sluggish curiosity. the haze of premature arousal lingers betwixt mahogany tresses, and caresses morning features. he was appreciative of rising early, naturally embracing the luminous scar of the sun’s first appearance, only the two had not agreed upon slumber until far into the night. a habitual ‘ struggle ’.
“ would thou be so kind to braid our hair today ? ”
formality of exasperation is prevalent in tone as she sets a hairclip of value on counter’s ledge; an esteemed gift intended solely for the pearlescent locks before him. several attempts at conceptualizing her own design faltered on disapproving fingers, now left to clutch the stool supporting her lower half. her posture does not ripple as the ocean, yet her composure cracks as the crest of a wave. he entreats her, a mildness to digits exploring the extent of the moon’s glow in her hair. amassing its refinement, interlacing fingers amidst its strands, he bundles his right hand at the union of skull and spine. he tugs hard, pulling her sights back and over to him. a devious glimpse of his smile precedes confrontational whisper.
“ ——— no . ”
