[ when olivia wakes the next morning, she feels like she'd been hit by the very train they'd all rode in on. even worse than her hangover, as if her brain had been removed from her body, dragged through fifty feet of rubble then rung dry, only to be haphazardly stuffed back in. her entire body feels like it weighs tons, eliciting a soft whimper when she turns in bed — though the sound itself is more whining than from actual pain.
rolling over, she is quick to tuck herself back into achilles' chest, where his body seems to radiate warmth like a thriving campfire. she tugs the blanket high over her head, essentially making a little cocoon of herself against his side. ]
[As she shifts beside him, Achilles cinches his arms ever tighter around her waist to hold her close, their legs tangled together beneath the sheets, her curves fitting into the angles of his body and her bare skin petal-soft against his. The gauzy veil of sleep drapes his mind still, and so when he answers he can only mumble into the crown of her blanket-shrouded head.]
For the sun cannot stop in its course across the sky, thus night must give way to morning.
[His fingers trace languid patterns into her sides and over her hips: he is in no great rush to leave this warm pocket of the morning in which all his cares and duties exist only as an inchoate haze somewhere beyond his reach.]
[ olivia had no objection to being drawn closer, eagerly seeking out the offered warmth of his body now that he had wordlessly given her permission to do so. easy enough to press her cheek against his chest and tighten the leg she'd had wrapped around him, though she has yet to burrow out from the cocoon she'd made for herself. ]
It's too bright, [ she says in response, her own words made thick with a sleep that is too quickly ebbing away. there is a hint of a tone there he might not recognize from her before — a whine, almost petulant and resentful. she has her eyes squeezed, but the light pouring from the window persists, and despite the pleasure of warmth it grants her during this winter season, she still finds herself quite rueful. ]
[Indeed it is strange to hear such petulance heavy upon her tongue, for so rarely does she raise complaint against anything at all, never mind against an infraction so seemingly minor as the light infiltrating the window past the thin curtain. Still he cannot help the light teasing lilt which colors his words when he answers.]
Has ever flower been so adverse to the sun's radiance? Come now, what ails you?
[His hands work up her back, drifting over the curved ridges of her shoulder blades, and his fingers play at her hair.]
[ she stalls before answering. so much so that it might have seemed like she hadn't heard him at all, despite their close proximity, how his voice even thickened with sleep can still pierce through even the flightiest of attentions.
when at last it seemed as if she may never answer him, she draws down the sheet she'd used as a cocoon, peeking out from under a messy fringe of pink to glance at him. ]
...ALASTAIR has gifted me another power, [ she mumbles, the lower half of her face still obstructed by sheet and hands. she should be excited, and for a while she had been, but after feeling the effects of them as intensely as she had the day before, she has to wonder if it is more a gift or a curse. ]
[Upon the breaking of this news, the weight of which fractures the ordinariness of their languid morning routine, he awakens by degrees all the more rapidly. His eyes remain open, rather than fluttering shut to allow him to drift back into the dregs of sleep, and he peers at her where she curls against his chest. His golden curls too are a tousled mess, unbound and spilling over his shoulders and the pillow. The bristles of his beard defy the grain to lie every which way where his cheek had been pressed against the pillow during his slumber.]
What mean you by this - another gift like that of your healing hands? What manner of gift is this that leaves you so tired of heart, dear Olivia?
[Where there might have been awe, for he knows the pride she takes in her healing arts, he hears only her hesitation, and he aches to know why. Among his people, a rare few are gifted with sight by Apollo, and such seers are revered for having so profound a connection to the gods. Yet in the years he has passed upon the Dardanian shore, he has heard rumor of Cassandra, daughter of Priam, who was granted the gift of Apollo yet cursed in the same breath. He has heard of how she is mad, how no sane man should take heed of the prophecies which bubble from her lips. Achilles wonders if Olivia's gift too must come with the burden of a curse.]
[ she supposes she should be happy. after her talk with lloyd, olivia had come to view these gifts with more openness, more optimism. it is a sign that the seniors have come to find her not only capable of such power, but worthy of it, too. it speaks to their trust in her, and such responsibility she would never consider lightly.
but even now, hours after the incidents, olivia can still feel the remnants of that power in the stiffness of her bones, the ache in her muscles. her heart feels heavy with the ghost of other people's emotions, but it is all so muddled and messy that in her exhaustion she can't even begin to piece together which are her own. ]
I was given empathy, [ she explains quietly, and somehow putting it to voice makes the situation that much more laughable for her. give the woman who cries over lone strawberries on a plate the power of empathy — surely that was a good idea.
she sighs heavily, slowly lifting the blanket back up to cover her head once more. ]
[There follows a length of silence in which he tries to comprehend while his fingers still trace idle patterns over her back, until he can temper his thoughts into words.]
Thus it is the hearts of men rather than the minds of gods into which you may see. But to what purpose were you granted such a gift as this? It seems that all you may gain is the burden of countless hearts each laden with countless cares.
[If beneath the blankets she shall remain, then he shall burrow there with her. Thus he tucks in and pulls his own corner of the blanket over his head that he may better see his wife. The dimness trapped within matters little for she is so close nestled there against his chest that still he can discern the blossoming hue of her hair, in which now he buries his lips.]
If you tire, then rest. Where have we to go this morning? Thus we may pass the time as we so please.
[ for a moment, olivia is tempted to merely leave it at that, and let the halcyon nature of the atmosphere soothe her tumultuous mind. it is tempting, especially now that he joins her here in her small refuge, playful and innocent enough that she very nearly forgets there is cause for worry...
but not even olivia's mind, it seems, could take it easy on her. ]
I think... [ her own voice is soft in its contemplation, but there is a heaviness to her words that imply it is not a thought she is taking lightly, and instead one she might have worried over for some time now. ]
I think maybe it's punishment. [ feeling as low as she is now, she cannot think of any other reason. and indeed it is in her nature to always look a little too inward in these matters, and thus the blame should naturally fall on her. ]
I think maybe I've been too caught up in my own happiness, and this power is to remind me to remember there are others that matter, too.
[For all the warmth in which he swaddles her, from the circle made of his sturdy arms around her waist to the hearth of his chest in which she buries her face, from the cocoon of blankets to the wreathe of his breath atop the crown of her head, it seems that still he cannot shield her from the insecurities which blow in unbidden like a cold draft. When he speaks, his voice betrays some grain of impatience or incredulity that is not wholly for her, and yet not wholly without roots in her self-abasement. Vanity is far from a trait to be admired in a woman, in whose bosoms belongs humility - yet Olivia seems to bear more than her share of such modesty.]
What is this you are saying? If ever a woman has had more gentle a heart than you, I've not heard rumor of her. Always you care more for the contentment of others than for your own, and always you worry after their cares. Lay not such insults upon yourself therefore.
[His hands wander tirelessly over her back, squeezing her sides and brushing over her bottom in attempts to dispel the fog that seems to shroud her mood.]
[ even without the tiny flare of emotion courtesy of her new empathy powers, olivia can hear his impatience trickling into the gravelly tone of his voice that she has come to consider a large part of her mornings these days. it makes her wince a bit in guilt, that such dark thoughts of hers could aggravate him so, and she hastens to push them down lest it bother him further. she normally wouldn't have even voiced them... but it had been early, and she had been weak. ]
Right... You're right, [ she says, in a tone he might recall as one of soothing, as if he were the one in need of it this morning. she attempts to lighten her tone, affecting it with a note of quiet laughter. ]
I'm being silly, I guess... I don't know what I was thinking.
[He is one ill-versed in the hearts of others, yet he has learned by degrees slow and steady how to listen to hers: and so he can hear how quickly she buries her cares, buried as would be a seed that swells within the soil and there takes root. It strikes him suddenly that she so rarely speaks her grievances. This truth he sees now only through the absence of her cares in conversations of days past, just as one might note the sun only when a cloud at long last passes before it and casts its wide-reaching shadow. Thus his words soften when again he speaks.]
I meant only that you have committed no wrong such that warrants punishment of any sort. If you are happy, it is because you deserve this blessing for the joy with which you have blessed so many. And if those of ALASTAIR thought themselves fit to judge you as only gods have the right to judge men, then I would decry them for their impudence.
[His lips are gentle upon the crown of her head.]
Be not afraid to share your grievances as I have so often shared with you.
[ she is grateful, then, that he cannot see her face. see how this, too, is like a strike against her heart, for she worries now that she has done wrong in assuming she's done wrong, but truthfully this is a problem of hers that he is not made to have to handle. she knows her mind can be her worst enemy at times, and she is grateful that he can so calmly remind her of this... even in such indirect ways.
and so she swallows back another apology, nodding instead to acquiesce to his reassurances. ]
I guess... sometimes it's just easier to blame myself, [ she confesses, her voice small once again. she recalls her friend panne, who so coolly encouraged her to stop seeking out her failures, all in the hopes of numbing the pain when it comes. ]
[Such a sentiment he cannot understand, for he has more often found blame outside of himself, whether in the machinations of Fate and the gods, or in the transgressions of mortal men like wide-ruling Agamemnon and Hector of the glinting helmet. He falls silent for a moment as his fingers ruminate over the ridge of her back where it crests between her shoulder blades. Here in the snug cocoon of the blanket the only sound that endures is that of their soft breaths rising and falling together.]
Then think of it not as a curse but a gift. You wish to aid those whom you hold dear, do you not? Just as you assuage the aches of the flesh with your healing hands, so too may you assuage the aches of the heart with this your new sight. It must be that your gentle heart has opened all the wider to welcome more to its warm hearth.
[Such a gift suits her well, for such a heart is to be admired in a woman, a heart so compelled to bring joy to others as one lantern may share its flame to light another. Yet he cannot help but worry too for the fragility of anything so tender: how many alien joys and sorrows can she absorb ere she bursts?]
[ it has become instinct for her, at this point. to turn everything inward, indulging in a strange form of narcissism that seeks to bring down instead of boosting up. she has never fully understood this part of her, though to be fair she hasn't really devoted any time to trying to in the first place. for olivia, it has simply always been this way, and as such, become too natural to contest.
but in his words she finds a comfort she had not been brave enough to offer herself. it brings about the a small smile to her lips, far more genuine than any other she has had since waking. this smile she buries against his bare chest, though he should feel the familiarity of their curve. ]
Do you really think so...?
[ her voice is small, but imploring. where some might think her selfless, or humble, it is more the truth that she constantly seeks these forms of validation. to hear them come so easily from achilles feels a gentle blessing that makes heavy her limbs. she shifts to curl even closer against him, that he might feel how warm it makes her. ]
[His strong arms secure her there against him, the span of his hands warm upon her bare back, and he remembers how he had vowed to show her all that she is worth. Such an endeavor might well be a burden for how endless it seems, he like Sisyphus made to push the boulder uphill forevermore, but in his hands it feels possible. With his gaze occupied by her loveliness and his heart filled with all the small delights she brings, he has no shortage of facets which he might try to polish to a gleam that at last she shall notice.]
Can you not feel my heartbeat there against your cheek? And can you not look inside my very heart to see how truly I love you? Indeed it is for your gentleness as much as your beauty that I cherish you so, this you ought to know well. What need have I to lie therefore?
[If she purposes to protest, he continues right along.]
Come now - if we are to enjoy this morning, then what say you to a song played upon my lyre?
[ she tries to take his words to heart. lets her eyes close, and her mind focus. she hears the steady beat of his heart, just as he'd said. and there, amidst the measured rhythm, the feeling he had promised, too — like a low hum in the depths of her chest, reverberating and warming. she lets it overtake her for a moment, like the very sheet that covers them both, she drowns herself in it, breathes it all in.
by the time he brings up the lyre, there is a lightness to her mind that is both relaxing and distracting. it is easy for her to laugh now, the sound itself a soft melody like twinkling bells in the wind. ]
I can't think of a better way to wake up, [ she agrees, around a smile so full. ]
[Her smile is the music he wishes most to hear, and with it returns the easy peace of the morning as he has come to know it when shared with her. Gently he pulls the blankets from over their heads that he can climb out of bed, but he takes care not to leave her exposed to the chill of the room. He is wholly unabashed by his nudity as he bends to retrieve his lyre from where it rests on the floor, propped against the wall. His movements are languid so as to allow her eyes the chance to linger. For the cool air that braces his body, his nipples stand pert; for the haziness of morning and the warmth they had nurtured in the cradle of one another's bodies, he is half aroused.
He comes to join her once more, now atop the covers so as to let her hold onto the warmth they had together built. At the foot of the bed drapes one of his cloaks, for the benefit of draping one's body in large rectangles of fabric is that one's wardrobe doubles as bedding, and this he pulls loosely over his lap ere he sets the lyre upon his thigh.
With a toss of his proud head, sending his golden curls flying over his shoulders, he begins to idly pluck scales and stray scraps of songs from the strings.]
This is a new song I wish to try - forgive me then if it is not to your liking.
[He teases her with a grin and bends to press a kiss to her forehead through the frantic disarray of pink locks.]
[ if anyone were to think his performance only begins at the first pluck of a lyre string, they would be dead wrong. he is a man who knows himself and his assets; it's clear in the way he puts on a show for her when he meanders about the small room, shame a burden the gods saw fit to relieve him of.
like a true artist, olivia cannot help but admire his beauty, the almost ethereal way his form cuts an image so soft yet so imposing still. she delights in the curvature of his muscles, how they tense and flex with every little movement he makes. her eyes make a trail over his form that she has indulged in many times before, yet has still never grown tired of. by the time he finally reclaims a spot on the bed by her feet, she has propped herself up on an elbow, laying on her side with the sheet draped over her figure just enough to keep as decent as he is, but in her eyes is a look much appreciative, and between her teeth is a lower lip she'd caught to keep less proper thoughts to herself. ]
Is there anything about you I can dislike? [ she muses in the same teasing lilt he takes on. ] If there is, I haven't found it yet, and I doubt I will this morning.
[His grin drapes lazily over his lips as a grapevine might train over a branch, and he delights in the way her eyes follow him as bees would seek the next flower upon which to land. Then his fingers dance nimbly over the strings and in a slow stream of notes begins his song.
The songs that swell in his throat are usually of his homeland, the heroes celebrated by the Achaeans and the gods revered, yet now what rings forth is a tale of a stranger shore. Yet even so he begins with the familiar evocation of the muses who atop Mount Parnassus dwell, and the tune sways like wind through the boughs of ash trees, like waves upon the wine-dark sea.]
Sing, O muses sweet, of the splendid tree, The ash whose mighty boughs do bear the name Yggdrasil, the heart which in the world's breast beats, And all in the nine realms know of its fame.
[Such is one of the stories Olivia had once read to him from the book given by gold-clad Gilgamesh, the stories of lands he cannot place, where dwell gods and men whose names are unfamiliar against his ears. Another two verses he weaves together, ere his voice falls away to leave the lyre to sing out alone: the instrument seems a part of him, so in tune he is with his music, his body bobbing and bending to the shape of the notes even as he sits there atop the bed.]
[ she recognizes the story instantly, prompting a warmth to spread across her cheeks, making the curvature of her lips soft and tender. ]
Your voice never ceases to put me at ease, my love, [ she hums when the last note of his song peters off into the cool morning air. she shudders, but she cannot say if it is because of the song, or the winter lingering behind their window. still, she does not think to draw the blanket higher over her body, leaving her just covered enough to be decent.
slowly, her hand slips down to cross the small space between them, finding the curve of his knee, settling just a little above it. should he look, there in her eyes would be an offer of a solution for the cooling air, but it is not one she is quite so bold enough to put a voice to. at least not yet.
instead, she draws her lower lip between her teeth, and hopes he is as keen to subtlety as he is to directness. ]
[She need not speak words to make clear her intent, not when her gaze hangs so heavy upon him beneath lashes lowered and her delicate hand impresses upon him the weight of her desire. With a grin perched upon his lips like a finch ready to take flight, he sets aside the lyre that he may answer Olivia's quiet invitation. He curves his body toward her and draws aside the blanket that drapes her naked form: this he does slowly, as if to better delight in how her beauty is thus revealed to him by degrees, as if her radiance might blind him if he were to look all at once.]
You shall feel all the more powerfully my love, dear Olivia, with your heart that so clearly sees into the depths of mine.
[His hand roams up her thigh, the welcoming coast of which he has learned so well in all the time he has spent navigating it, then passes over her rear, which he squeezes with deliberate drowsiness on his way to her waist. His every movement pours over her as would honey, slow and sweet and thick, as he arches over her and urges her to lie back upon the bed. His lips latch onto her neck, fervently parted to impart kisses upon her sweet skin, while his beard tickles her throat and his unbound hair spills over her in silken streams.
The rest of the morning they shall spend with limbs entwined in the complicated knot of love, draped loosely in the tangled blankets and the winter air which loses its chill with each bold endeavor of lips and hands and hips. Perhaps too the shroud which draws around Olivia's thoughts shall fall away degree by degree with each exultant cry of her name upon his lips and each love-sweet word murmured against her flesh.]
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action | a day after arrival at perdition's rest
rolling over, she is quick to tuck herself back into achilles' chest, where his body seems to radiate warmth like a thriving campfire. she tugs the blanket high over her head, essentially making a little cocoon of herself against his side. ]
Why does morning exist...
no subject
For the sun cannot stop in its course across the sky, thus night must give way to morning.
[His fingers trace languid patterns into her sides and over her hips: he is in no great rush to leave this warm pocket of the morning in which all his cares and duties exist only as an inchoate haze somewhere beyond his reach.]
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It's too bright, [ she says in response, her own words made thick with a sleep that is too quickly ebbing away. there is a hint of a tone there he might not recognize from her before — a whine, almost petulant and resentful. she has her eyes squeezed, but the light pouring from the window persists, and despite the pleasure of warmth it grants her during this winter season, she still finds herself quite rueful. ]
no subject
Has ever flower been so adverse to the sun's radiance? Come now, what ails you?
[His hands work up her back, drifting over the curved ridges of her shoulder blades, and his fingers play at her hair.]
no subject
when at last it seemed as if she may never answer him, she draws down the sheet she'd used as a cocoon, peeking out from under a messy fringe of pink to glance at him. ]
...ALASTAIR has gifted me another power, [ she mumbles, the lower half of her face still obstructed by sheet and hands. she should be excited, and for a while she had been, but after feeling the effects of them as intensely as she had the day before, she has to wonder if it is more a gift or a curse. ]
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What mean you by this - another gift like that of your healing hands? What manner of gift is this that leaves you so tired of heart, dear Olivia?
[Where there might have been awe, for he knows the pride she takes in her healing arts, he hears only her hesitation, and he aches to know why. Among his people, a rare few are gifted with sight by Apollo, and such seers are revered for having so profound a connection to the gods. Yet in the years he has passed upon the Dardanian shore, he has heard rumor of Cassandra, daughter of Priam, who was granted the gift of Apollo yet cursed in the same breath. He has heard of how she is mad, how no sane man should take heed of the prophecies which bubble from her lips. Achilles wonders if Olivia's gift too must come with the burden of a curse.]
no subject
but even now, hours after the incidents, olivia can still feel the remnants of that power in the stiffness of her bones, the ache in her muscles. her heart feels heavy with the ghost of other people's emotions, but it is all so muddled and messy that in her exhaustion she can't even begin to piece together which are her own. ]
I was given empathy, [ she explains quietly, and somehow putting it to voice makes the situation that much more laughable for her. give the woman who cries over lone strawberries on a plate the power of empathy — surely that was a good idea.
she sighs heavily, slowly lifting the blanket back up to cover her head once more. ]
I'm so tired...
no subject
Thus it is the hearts of men rather than the minds of gods into which you may see. But to what purpose were you granted such a gift as this? It seems that all you may gain is the burden of countless hearts each laden with countless cares.
[If beneath the blankets she shall remain, then he shall burrow there with her. Thus he tucks in and pulls his own corner of the blanket over his head that he may better see his wife. The dimness trapped within matters little for she is so close nestled there against his chest that still he can discern the blossoming hue of her hair, in which now he buries his lips.]
If you tire, then rest. Where have we to go this morning? Thus we may pass the time as we so please.
no subject
but not even olivia's mind, it seems, could take it easy on her. ]
I think... [ her own voice is soft in its contemplation, but there is a heaviness to her words that imply it is not a thought she is taking lightly, and instead one she might have worried over for some time now. ]
I think maybe it's punishment. [ feeling as low as she is now, she cannot think of any other reason. and indeed it is in her nature to always look a little too inward in these matters, and thus the blame should naturally fall on her. ]
I think maybe I've been too caught up in my own happiness, and this power is to remind me to remember there are others that matter, too.
no subject
What is this you are saying? If ever a woman has had more gentle a heart than you, I've not heard rumor of her. Always you care more for the contentment of others than for your own, and always you worry after their cares. Lay not such insults upon yourself therefore.
[His hands wander tirelessly over her back, squeezing her sides and brushing over her bottom in attempts to dispel the fog that seems to shroud her mood.]
no subject
Right... You're right, [ she says, in a tone he might recall as one of soothing, as if he were the one in need of it this morning. she attempts to lighten her tone, affecting it with a note of quiet laughter. ]
I'm being silly, I guess... I don't know what I was thinking.
no subject
I meant only that you have committed no wrong such that warrants punishment of any sort. If you are happy, it is because you deserve this blessing for the joy with which you have blessed so many. And if those of ALASTAIR thought themselves fit to judge you as only gods have the right to judge men, then I would decry them for their impudence.
[His lips are gentle upon the crown of her head.]
Be not afraid to share your grievances as I have so often shared with you.
no subject
and so she swallows back another apology, nodding instead to acquiesce to his reassurances. ]
I guess... sometimes it's just easier to blame myself, [ she confesses, her voice small once again. she recalls her friend panne, who so coolly encouraged her to stop seeking out her failures, all in the hopes of numbing the pain when it comes. ]
no subject
Then think of it not as a curse but a gift. You wish to aid those whom you hold dear, do you not? Just as you assuage the aches of the flesh with your healing hands, so too may you assuage the aches of the heart with this your new sight. It must be that your gentle heart has opened all the wider to welcome more to its warm hearth.
[Such a gift suits her well, for such a heart is to be admired in a woman, a heart so compelled to bring joy to others as one lantern may share its flame to light another. Yet he cannot help but worry too for the fragility of anything so tender: how many alien joys and sorrows can she absorb ere she bursts?]
no subject
but in his words she finds a comfort she had not been brave enough to offer herself. it brings about the a small smile to her lips, far more genuine than any other she has had since waking. this smile she buries against his bare chest, though he should feel the familiarity of their curve. ]
Do you really think so...?
[ her voice is small, but imploring. where some might think her selfless, or humble, it is more the truth that she constantly seeks these forms of validation. to hear them come so easily from achilles feels a gentle blessing that makes heavy her limbs. she shifts to curl even closer against him, that he might feel how warm it makes her. ]
no subject
Can you not feel my heartbeat there against your cheek? And can you not look inside my very heart to see how truly I love you? Indeed it is for your gentleness as much as your beauty that I cherish you so, this you ought to know well. What need have I to lie therefore?
[If she purposes to protest, he continues right along.]
Come now - if we are to enjoy this morning, then what say you to a song played upon my lyre?
no subject
by the time he brings up the lyre, there is a lightness to her mind that is both relaxing and distracting. it is easy for her to laugh now, the sound itself a soft melody like twinkling bells in the wind. ]
I can't think of a better way to wake up, [ she agrees, around a smile so full. ]
no subject
He comes to join her once more, now atop the covers so as to let her hold onto the warmth they had together built. At the foot of the bed drapes one of his cloaks, for the benefit of draping one's body in large rectangles of fabric is that one's wardrobe doubles as bedding, and this he pulls loosely over his lap ere he sets the lyre upon his thigh.
With a toss of his proud head, sending his golden curls flying over his shoulders, he begins to idly pluck scales and stray scraps of songs from the strings.]
This is a new song I wish to try - forgive me then if it is not to your liking.
[He teases her with a grin and bends to press a kiss to her forehead through the frantic disarray of pink locks.]
no subject
like a true artist, olivia cannot help but admire his beauty, the almost ethereal way his form cuts an image so soft yet so imposing still. she delights in the curvature of his muscles, how they tense and flex with every little movement he makes. her eyes make a trail over his form that she has indulged in many times before, yet has still never grown tired of. by the time he finally reclaims a spot on the bed by her feet, she has propped herself up on an elbow, laying on her side with the sheet draped over her figure just enough to keep as decent as he is, but in her eyes is a look much appreciative, and between her teeth is a lower lip she'd caught to keep less proper thoughts to herself. ]
Is there anything about you I can dislike? [ she muses in the same teasing lilt he takes on. ] If there is, I haven't found it yet, and I doubt I will this morning.
no subject
The songs that swell in his throat are usually of his homeland, the heroes celebrated by the Achaeans and the gods revered, yet now what rings forth is a tale of a stranger shore. Yet even so he begins with the familiar evocation of the muses who atop Mount Parnassus dwell, and the tune sways like wind through the boughs of ash trees, like waves upon the wine-dark sea.]
Sing, O muses sweet, of the splendid tree,
The ash whose mighty boughs do bear the name
Yggdrasil, the heart which in the world's breast beats,
And all in the nine realms know of its fame.
[Such is one of the stories Olivia had once read to him from the book given by gold-clad Gilgamesh, the stories of lands he cannot place, where dwell gods and men whose names are unfamiliar against his ears. Another two verses he weaves together, ere his voice falls away to leave the lyre to sing out alone: the instrument seems a part of him, so in tune he is with his music, his body bobbing and bending to the shape of the notes even as he sits there atop the bed.]
no subject
Your voice never ceases to put me at ease, my love, [ she hums when the last note of his song peters off into the cool morning air. she shudders, but she cannot say if it is because of the song, or the winter lingering behind their window. still, she does not think to draw the blanket higher over her body, leaving her just covered enough to be decent.
slowly, her hand slips down to cross the small space between them, finding the curve of his knee, settling just a little above it. should he look, there in her eyes would be an offer of a solution for the cooling air, but it is not one she is quite so bold enough to put a voice to. at least not yet.
instead, she draws her lower lip between her teeth, and hopes he is as keen to subtlety as he is to directness. ]
no subject
You shall feel all the more powerfully my love, dear Olivia, with your heart that so clearly sees into the depths of mine.
[His hand roams up her thigh, the welcoming coast of which he has learned so well in all the time he has spent navigating it, then passes over her rear, which he squeezes with deliberate drowsiness on his way to her waist. His every movement pours over her as would honey, slow and sweet and thick, as he arches over her and urges her to lie back upon the bed. His lips latch onto her neck, fervently parted to impart kisses upon her sweet skin, while his beard tickles her throat and his unbound hair spills over her in silken streams.
The rest of the morning they shall spend with limbs entwined in the complicated knot of love, draped loosely in the tangled blankets and the winter air which loses its chill with each bold endeavor of lips and hands and hips. Perhaps too the shroud which draws around Olivia's thoughts shall fall away degree by degree with each exultant cry of her name upon his lips and each love-sweet word murmured against her flesh.]