Maea
My heroes had the heart to lose their lives out on the limb
She felt silly and out of sorts. The whole thing was strange, and new, and far more intimate than she had expected. Much as she wanted to relax and display that same confidence that the blonde seemed to embody however, Maea didn't have it in her. Not here, tonight, when faced with a slew of challenges all at once. Though she permitted the fingers on her lips, a faint tremor could not be entirely suppressed. The blood left behind was sticky and felt weird; she nearly licked it off, in the way of someone who had never grown accustomed to lipstick and was too restless to simply endure.
It felt better when it became her turn. "Okay," she nodded, visibly bracing herself. Glances at her hands reminded her of the steps she'd nearly forgotten already. Heart and starburst, crescent moons, then time. Soaking her fingers in the heartblood of the sow, her thoughts found solace in the simplistic task of creating the shapes. Let her ignore, for the most part, how soft the woman's skin was, and what it felt like to touch her cheeks. Her hands felt cold in comparison, fingertips rough and chapped from holding pens and weapons. Clumsy, and far from tender or patient.
When it came to the rest of the painting, she hesitated. Sat back on her heels, bloody fingers unsure what to do next. "What of the rest?" Because that white dress was like a canvas waiting for paint. Maea was no artist though, and that much blank space to fill was beyond daunting.
It felt better when it became her turn. "Okay," she nodded, visibly bracing herself. Glances at her hands reminded her of the steps she'd nearly forgotten already. Heart and starburst, crescent moons, then time. Soaking her fingers in the heartblood of the sow, her thoughts found solace in the simplistic task of creating the shapes. Let her ignore, for the most part, how soft the woman's skin was, and what it felt like to touch her cheeks. Her hands felt cold in comparison, fingertips rough and chapped from holding pens and weapons. Clumsy, and far from tender or patient.
When it came to the rest of the painting, she hesitated. Sat back on her heels, bloody fingers unsure what to do next. "What of the rest?" Because that white dress was like a canvas waiting for paint. Maea was no artist though, and that much blank space to fill was beyond daunting.
And I remember thinking — I want to be like them
