[ the gol-e sorkh of the eastern rise is known for the ruby flash of his eyes and the crimson lash of his wit. songs have been written about the depth of his beauty that rivals the shine of the sun. red is the rarest colour of rose in the fragmented basin of vissudha. the sumeran rose, named for the ancient land that their city-states honour, is famously purple. for someone to have been born with such red in his blood, they say, the lokapalans were blessed with light. and so the story goes - red jewels for his first nameday, a bracelet inlaid with red star rubies for his coming to age, the crimson jewel of a natlan prince embedded into his hilt of his great claymore. red is a colour synonymous with kaveh. it had brought him great fortune, once.
his wrists burn red. the knotted red bruising reminds alhaitham of an ancient torture involving fire ants. the red of kaveh's eyes, squeezed shut, gives way to the painted red of his lips ostentatious enough that it hides the bruising of his lips well until you're close enough to taste. his people had been dyed red. his palace had been dyed red. the colour of soul must bleed, alhaitham thinks. but this time, he doesn't pause. sentiment will not reverse course the endless waterfall of history. sentiment will not give excuse against the fear. sentiment will not open the lock to a gilded, golden chain. only alhaitham will.
his fingers skim the gold of the collar, warmed by kaveh's bodyheat, the clinical press of his fingers terribly disinterested in anything more than the task at hand. his key slips in. the click of a finely-oiled lock seems to reverberate in the air between them, a shift in atmosphere as alhaitham slips the collar away. he drops it irreverently, where it bounces off the bed to roll to a stop at kaveh's unbound feet.
alhaitham rises. he pockets the key once more, and then straightens to stand. ]
Now, you may stretch without any force in this world commanding your legs and arms to be in the same direction. Or did you have more questions about the process?
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2023-04-08 04:07 am (UTC)his wrists burn red. the knotted red bruising reminds alhaitham of an ancient torture involving fire ants. the red of kaveh's eyes, squeezed shut, gives way to the painted red of his lips ostentatious enough that it hides the bruising of his lips well until you're close enough to taste. his people had been dyed red. his palace had been dyed red. the colour of soul must bleed, alhaitham thinks. but this time, he doesn't pause. sentiment will not reverse course the endless waterfall of history. sentiment will not give excuse against the fear. sentiment will not open the lock to a gilded, golden chain. only alhaitham will.
his fingers skim the gold of the collar, warmed by kaveh's bodyheat, the clinical press of his fingers terribly disinterested in anything more than the task at hand. his key slips in. the click of a finely-oiled lock seems to reverberate in the air between them, a shift in atmosphere as alhaitham slips the collar away. he drops it irreverently, where it bounces off the bed to roll to a stop at kaveh's unbound feet.
alhaitham rises. he pockets the key once more, and then straightens to stand. ]
Now, you may stretch without any force in this world commanding your legs and arms to be in the same direction. Or did you have more questions about the process?