Giselle: The Guest
She carefully unbuttoned Abigail's blazer, a slow smile on her face. She knew that if the other woman was not kindred, she would be blushing. The hawk carefully pulled it away, and nodded. "Yes," she smiled. "For the Blood's Night? This is what you should wear." She did not understand the other woman's desire to hide a flawless body, to deny the pleasures that could wash through even the unbeating heart. Still, she did not push, did not pry. She had an idea of the kind of burden the other took on herself, and only sought to show her that there was still a Way, a road where one experienced each moment in its fullness, for pleasure and for pain.
What has happened to her, that she does not love being, wondered the hawk. They shared small pleasures, passing books between them like words, their notes filling the margins. The hawk took a care to pamper her guest, as she so often did, seeing that there was no comfort spared. There was more than one kind of desire, and what she found in her heart for Abigail was this, that it was enough to merely see pleasure on the other woman's face and know she had caused it.
If it was fitting that some serve the gods in the sacrifices of others, her secret was that all her offerings were wholly of herself, what she was, to what she would become.
What has happened to her, that she does not love being, wondered the hawk. They shared small pleasures, passing books between them like words, their notes filling the margins. The hawk took a care to pamper her guest, as she so often did, seeing that there was no comfort spared. There was more than one kind of desire, and what she found in her heart for Abigail was this, that it was enough to merely see pleasure on the other woman's face and know she had caused it.
If it was fitting that some serve the gods in the sacrifices of others, her secret was that all her offerings were wholly of herself, what she was, to what she would become.