[ A Liberi. Midnight smiles more with his eyes than with his mouth. He'd made that mistake when he first met Kaveh, hadn't he? Wondered how he'd been able to groom his headplumage to look so different before remembering the strange missing parts on so many of the humans here.
(Liberi are short-lived. The smallest, hottest flares of life.)
Midnight picks up Kaveh's hand, presses his lips to cold fingers. The Sanguinarch did this earlier in the script. He remembers this even as he understands that it never happened. Odd how the mind adjusts to contradiction.
(How long? How long until he's too everything he is, and not enough himself?) ]
I should, shouldn't I.
[ ... Midnight looks into Kaveh's eyes. ]
Perhaps I'd like you all to myself for a bit, mm?
[ Midnight does not have covetous bone in his body. Jealousy, yes; a desire to take that which does not already belong to him, most assuredly not. And he's always known that no one belongs to anyone else, even before his books informed him of that singular fact.
So it's a lie. A poorly told one. Midnight turns Kaveh's hand, kisses the meat of his palm. The nerves under that scarred flesh are shutting down, he knows. He'll have to wait until Kaveh is helpless. It's in this script. The Sargonian architect is just as stubborn, as prideful, as enthralled with his own martyrdom.
Midnight closes his eyes, smells Kaveh's skin. (He can smell the blood, the cold tang of Originium underneath his scent. He knows that that mix will reappear in his short, fevered nightmares. This, too, is a part of love.) ]
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(Liberi are short-lived. The smallest, hottest flares of life.)
Midnight picks up Kaveh's hand, presses his lips to cold fingers. The Sanguinarch did this earlier in the script. He remembers this even as he understands that it never happened. Odd how the mind adjusts to contradiction.
(How long? How long until he's too everything he is, and not enough himself?) ]
I should, shouldn't I.
[ ... Midnight looks into Kaveh's eyes. ]
Perhaps I'd like you all to myself for a bit, mm?
[ Midnight does not have covetous bone in his body. Jealousy, yes; a desire to take that which does not already belong to him, most assuredly not. And he's always known that no one belongs to anyone else, even before his books informed him of that singular fact.
So it's a lie. A poorly told one. Midnight turns Kaveh's hand, kisses the meat of his palm. The nerves under that scarred flesh are shutting down, he knows. He'll have to wait until Kaveh is helpless. It's in this script. The Sargonian architect is just as stubborn, as prideful, as enthralled with his own martyrdom.
Midnight closes his eyes, smells Kaveh's skin. (He can smell the blood, the cold tang of Originium underneath his scent. He knows that that mix will reappear in his short, fevered nightmares. This, too, is a part of love.) ]