justprompts: It's Midnight
Jul. 6th, 2008 07:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hecalledmeivyIt's midnight, do you know where your Kincaid is?
Everything is more vivid in Granada.
The sun is hotter. The red is brighter. The bell tolls are louder.
Ivy slips out of the drenched bed, leaving the exhausted boy (who was she kidding? She was almost as drained as him...) drowsing, the covers and the moonlight clothing him in beauty all his own as the strokes of midnight wash over the tiny room. Midnight. Her heart is barely starting to slow down and the Archive remembers that in two hours, she and Kincaid need to be at the appointed location. Where is he? Probably down on the street, looking up and looking undisturbed, but not moving an inch.
She looks around to locate her scattered clothes then pads to the open window to let the slight breeze cool her skin before she puts them back on.
Yes, there he is. In the shadows between two lampposts. He is not happy; she suspects, no, she knows - he's not happy with her. They'd figure that out later. Another moment in the window frame, her senses extended to feel for any threat out there, out of habit, then she turns around and starts pulling on the clothing silently. The peasant blouse and the jeans are somewhat wrinkled, but never mind that. The high-heeled sandals she takes in her hand, as well as the purse, and walks barefooted out. She doesn't strap on the shoes until she's on the street and Kincaid's moving to cover her again. He doesn't speak.
His blue eyes eyes glitter in the darkness.
***
His eyes glittered in the dim light as the dance was over and the circle of young people around her simply would not be penetrated by an intruder. Her heart thundering, her mind flying with the feel of the dance, she met his gaze and nodded slightly. It was all right. He need not interfere.
It could have been perceived as dismissal, if he didn't know her better. He wasn't her servant. She'd usually comply with most of what he directed.
But not tonight. The scent of the flowers and the weeping of the music had taken her too far; too far back in memories, too high in excitement. Too close to who was here only for tonight. Or rather, who was here for her to TOUCH only for tonight. They'd be here tomorrow too, and the day after.
She wouldn't be.
And the flamenco did not leave space for tomorrow. There was only fire, and fire was now.
***
The cry of the guitar and the maddening, arrhythmical clapping lit the fire in her veins.
She'd lived for generations at a time under the too-bright sun, over the cobbled streets where this music let grief and joy melt into passion. She'd loved and hated under this music; she'd given birth and lost and gained and killed and learned who she was and had to be over and over again. Probably she had a bit of every part of the world in her, but tonight, right here, it was this music that beckoned, and she stood up to follow that call.
"I'll dance," she told Kincaid. His return smile was appreciative. He wasn't yet aware that her mind was already lost back in the memories.
And then her body started moving.
Each note and inflection had a meaning to her; each change of the rhythm, each word or call sang out. And she let it fill her and then her body was moving and she stopped thinking.
She was dressed in a white peasant blouse and light jeans, and strapped sandals that were the right kind of heels, because she couldn't wear anything else, here.
She was dressed in a swirling red dress to her ankles that her fingers made fly as her body dissolved into the music.
She was dressed in a peacock-blue dress with a train that her heels kicked in the direction it had to go, accentuating the turns, the twists, the stills and the motions.
Her mind was aware of the polished hardwood floor echoing under her shoes, of the cooling air that grew hot with her motions, the clapping of her own hands counterpoint to the clapping of the audience; the scent of the flowers; the song of the birds over the guitar and the clapping and singing.
Her mind was aware of the cobbles under her shoes, of the clanking that was unmistakable; of the baking heat of the sun glowing around her as it hung in the sky at midday, but not as hot as the fire that was her blood as she was dancing; of the calls of the people on the street and up on the windows and balconies; of the dry scents of flowers and humans stifling the air.
Her mind was aware of fire of sunset as her shoes echoed in the steps over the marble floor on the mansion balcony; of the audience of a prince and a queen and the hired singers and players that were sitting in a half-circle over there; of the too-sweet smell of flowers and heavier smell of torches being lit; of the play of shadows and flickering, burning light; of the eyes that could not tear themselves from her as her hands worked the castanets and her body froze as a bird shot by an arrow or moved like a flame eating up thin parchment.
As she danced.
But her mind being aware changed nothing.
Where she was, there was only the music and the flamenco. It was the fire and it was the air and it was the birds and it was the flowers and it was soul and passion and murder and birth and it was hatred and it was love.
It was jealousy.
It was owning.
It was the memory of yesterday and the inevitability of today and the knowing that there may be no tomorrow.
The dance was life, and life was dancing in her as so very seldom in Ivy's life.
She would take some strange body today, take and be taken. It was no resolution that her mind, or the Archive, or even the previous memories made. It was the dance. It claimed her as it claimed the dark, young man who was suddenly dancing against her. Dark, innocent, burning. He would not know what to do, but that would not stop him from pouring his soul into it, as he was letting it pour through him in the dancing now.
***
The dancing was over now, and there were questions and burning black eyes all around her, the blond figure having stepped aside and watching from the shadows.
Rough voices in the graceful tongue of this place, tongue she'd learned a long time ago and as every tongue, she remembered perfectly.
It wasn't the language. It was the meaning behind the words, and here and now, that was fire.
They slipped away, her heels loud on the pavement and their touch no less meaningful than the lack of it during the dance.
***
Kincaid falls into step beside her, and she answers his unspoken rebuke. "He wouldn't know me tomorrow. No danger involved." None for her safety. None for her heart.
He didn't respond to the reassurance. "Will you be ready for the appointment?"
"Of course."
Muse: The Archive
Fandom: The Dresden Files
Word count: 1 218
OOC: The music to go with this: here on youtube
Everything is more vivid in Granada.
The sun is hotter. The red is brighter. The bell tolls are louder.
Ivy slips out of the drenched bed, leaving the exhausted boy (who was she kidding? She was almost as drained as him...) drowsing, the covers and the moonlight clothing him in beauty all his own as the strokes of midnight wash over the tiny room. Midnight. Her heart is barely starting to slow down and the Archive remembers that in two hours, she and Kincaid need to be at the appointed location. Where is he? Probably down on the street, looking up and looking undisturbed, but not moving an inch.
She looks around to locate her scattered clothes then pads to the open window to let the slight breeze cool her skin before she puts them back on.
Yes, there he is. In the shadows between two lampposts. He is not happy; she suspects, no, she knows - he's not happy with her. They'd figure that out later. Another moment in the window frame, her senses extended to feel for any threat out there, out of habit, then she turns around and starts pulling on the clothing silently. The peasant blouse and the jeans are somewhat wrinkled, but never mind that. The high-heeled sandals she takes in her hand, as well as the purse, and walks barefooted out. She doesn't strap on the shoes until she's on the street and Kincaid's moving to cover her again. He doesn't speak.
His blue eyes eyes glitter in the darkness.
***
His eyes glittered in the dim light as the dance was over and the circle of young people around her simply would not be penetrated by an intruder. Her heart thundering, her mind flying with the feel of the dance, she met his gaze and nodded slightly. It was all right. He need not interfere.
It could have been perceived as dismissal, if he didn't know her better. He wasn't her servant. She'd usually comply with most of what he directed.
But not tonight. The scent of the flowers and the weeping of the music had taken her too far; too far back in memories, too high in excitement. Too close to who was here only for tonight. Or rather, who was here for her to TOUCH only for tonight. They'd be here tomorrow too, and the day after.
She wouldn't be.
And the flamenco did not leave space for tomorrow. There was only fire, and fire was now.
***
The cry of the guitar and the maddening, arrhythmical clapping lit the fire in her veins.
She'd lived for generations at a time under the too-bright sun, over the cobbled streets where this music let grief and joy melt into passion. She'd loved and hated under this music; she'd given birth and lost and gained and killed and learned who she was and had to be over and over again. Probably she had a bit of every part of the world in her, but tonight, right here, it was this music that beckoned, and she stood up to follow that call.
"I'll dance," she told Kincaid. His return smile was appreciative. He wasn't yet aware that her mind was already lost back in the memories.
And then her body started moving.
Each note and inflection had a meaning to her; each change of the rhythm, each word or call sang out. And she let it fill her and then her body was moving and she stopped thinking.
She was dressed in a white peasant blouse and light jeans, and strapped sandals that were the right kind of heels, because she couldn't wear anything else, here.
She was dressed in a swirling red dress to her ankles that her fingers made fly as her body dissolved into the music.
She was dressed in a peacock-blue dress with a train that her heels kicked in the direction it had to go, accentuating the turns, the twists, the stills and the motions.
Her mind was aware of the polished hardwood floor echoing under her shoes, of the cooling air that grew hot with her motions, the clapping of her own hands counterpoint to the clapping of the audience; the scent of the flowers; the song of the birds over the guitar and the clapping and singing.
Her mind was aware of the cobbles under her shoes, of the clanking that was unmistakable; of the baking heat of the sun glowing around her as it hung in the sky at midday, but not as hot as the fire that was her blood as she was dancing; of the calls of the people on the street and up on the windows and balconies; of the dry scents of flowers and humans stifling the air.
Her mind was aware of fire of sunset as her shoes echoed in the steps over the marble floor on the mansion balcony; of the audience of a prince and a queen and the hired singers and players that were sitting in a half-circle over there; of the too-sweet smell of flowers and heavier smell of torches being lit; of the play of shadows and flickering, burning light; of the eyes that could not tear themselves from her as her hands worked the castanets and her body froze as a bird shot by an arrow or moved like a flame eating up thin parchment.
As she danced.
But her mind being aware changed nothing.
Where she was, there was only the music and the flamenco. It was the fire and it was the air and it was the birds and it was the flowers and it was soul and passion and murder and birth and it was hatred and it was love.
It was jealousy.
It was owning.
It was the memory of yesterday and the inevitability of today and the knowing that there may be no tomorrow.
The dance was life, and life was dancing in her as so very seldom in Ivy's life.
She would take some strange body today, take and be taken. It was no resolution that her mind, or the Archive, or even the previous memories made. It was the dance. It claimed her as it claimed the dark, young man who was suddenly dancing against her. Dark, innocent, burning. He would not know what to do, but that would not stop him from pouring his soul into it, as he was letting it pour through him in the dancing now.
***
The dancing was over now, and there were questions and burning black eyes all around her, the blond figure having stepped aside and watching from the shadows.
Rough voices in the graceful tongue of this place, tongue she'd learned a long time ago and as every tongue, she remembered perfectly.
It wasn't the language. It was the meaning behind the words, and here and now, that was fire.
They slipped away, her heels loud on the pavement and their touch no less meaningful than the lack of it during the dance.
***
Kincaid falls into step beside her, and she answers his unspoken rebuke. "He wouldn't know me tomorrow. No danger involved." None for her safety. None for her heart.
He didn't respond to the reassurance. "Will you be ready for the appointment?"
"Of course."
Muse: The Archive
Fandom: The Dresden Files
Word count: 1 218
OOC: The music to go with this: here on youtube
