footprints in the ashes

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind He is a glacier, cold and untarnished; she strikes him like sunlight, unyielding yet impotent. She glares at him, her dark eyes sharp, tracking the sinew of his figure, each quiver of his lip, willing him to bow to her, to melt beneath her gaze. His evident indifference intrigues and infuriates: how dare he come here, into her library, and paw at the books with such wanton abandon, his large hands carelessly caressing their pages, fingers tracing idly down leather spine and inky words. His voice rumbles in the empty halls, an avalanche of sound among the whispers of the ghosts. She tries to peer at the tome in his grasp, an evidently fascinating piece of literature. She tries not to imagine what those hands have done, what they could do to her books... to her. He speaks again and her head snaps up, black eyes darting to meet his icy gaze. A flush spreads across her cheeks; she is taken aback by the weight of his question, though he need not know her turmoil. "I..." do!, the girl is desperate to confirm, her voice rising with impassioned wishes: wishes for power, for passion, for authority and the promise of a place that is hers. Do I run the library? In a sense, she supposes- but only in that there is no one else, nobody but her to uphold these hallowed halls. In the end she cannot claim it, cannot bring herself to allow him to think so highly of her. She lacks the qualifications, the knowledge and experience (or perhaps simply the confidence) to claim ownership of such a sacred place. "I... care for it," Amalia replies, deep voice firm with honesty. "There hasn't been a true librarian in years." She is quick to swallow the sting of this fast, sharp eyes glancing back at the book in his hands. "What information do you want?" the girl asks again, less accusatory and more inquisitive: his interest in knowledge soothes her ruffled nerves. "Perhaps I can assist." She wants to say more, to offer, inquire, to debate and engage, but her tongue catches in her mouth and she falls silent once more, anxious interest written clearly on the angles of her face. Her eager gaze turns back to his; she is unabashed in her inspection, and though it strains her neck to look up at him, she does not turn away. Her manners have rotted, her grandmother might have said, but she cannot help her stare. He scares her with the promise of something interesting, something dangerous, something new the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

image || coding