Latria, Beckoning

[Toska]

Chained to the underbelly of Quarzite's cavernous weave, Dionysus stood pale, languished in synthetic light that basked warmth in the world's depths. Splayed over velvet, sashes hugging the contours of his nigh naked frame, a docile look of irreverence stole over him. Cupped in palms that sweated sweetly, saccharine as the blood writhing in auspicious veins. The curve of a long-stemmed pipe dangled between his fingers.

Coils of smoke rose from a helpless veneer, smog thick with the translucent rim of opiates. Heady to the breath, sticking in lungs and exhaling a longing that caught at the throat. Inescapable. Rampart intensity, a fervor that rung with the pounding steps and stone-eyed guardsmen, helmets bracing gazes with copper and trails of lattice-lit coal.

They apprised their prince from veiled safety. Guarded looks shot between glass displays, worming into the tranquility that surrounded them. Reserved. They lingered in revere. Enraptured by the slow crawl of flesh dignifying Dionysus as he flicked the ebbing flame from his inlaid pipe. Grace manifested before he moved. Attached itself, guided in causality, elicited fixation, care, in every wayward gesture. Water winding through a bejeweled aquifer. Drained of color, pallor the shade of dawn. Milky, as if to berate the light its artificial depth.

He cast himself out the slicked wake of a window, gaze set to the fawning lakes beyond. Calm, a basin of the truest blue. Reflecting light, shimmering with mineral matter caught in eternal suspension. Liquid crystal transmogrified to the shape of purity, treacherous even as its very existence promised lurking horror. A mercurial death, dissembled to base particles.

Fear existed there, in spaces unknown. Only the trail of a metal wrought platform bridged the gap between the lake's central fixture and the outside world; ever beyond, far from the scope of Dionysus' searching eyes. What he saw hungered within him. Scant desires filling the hollows of his chest, erecting need where reminiscence failed to satiate him.

His every pleasure was acted out on whim. Unfolded in tomes and holographic lettering projected onto walls, sullying the air with falsity that beckoned knowledge. Understanding. But it lacked in substantiation. Comfort nagged at him. Festered in the places where idle thoughts shriveled, wasted. Redirected by coursing prose or a gilded phrase; do not tarry, claims that influenced the font of his being.

Wishes propped him on the couch. Whispers that begged forgiveness. For his presence. As if the light of crystalline fixtures could not stave off the chill that settled in Quarzite's midst. They sustained him. Their beacon, their warmth.

Golden teardrops painted his gaze where they pleased, and his very pleasure came from its silence. Restful. Waiting. The gears of existence grinding away, urging him forth, to progress. To move. He stayed his hand, the trembling digits that obscured the last length of his pipe. Settled them in his lap.

Visitors bade his welcome.

 

[Lux]

Breathless, eyes wide, Lux moved through the crystalline palace with obvious reverence, as though a step too certain or a glance held overlong might force the spires to crack and shatter beneath the weight of presence alone. Among those imbued with a seemingly innate fragility, citizens and structures alike, she was an outlier: dark haired and strong, purpose heavy in the subtle shifting of narrow hips. Her skin, soft and fair, seemed tanned in comparison; her eyes, a deeper blue than the darkest shadows climbing sparkling walls, proved out of place among a sea of sunset-hued stares.

Shadowed pinpricks settled in cheeks, small smile drawing forth dimples rarely offered for the consumption of strangers. Robed in velvet, evergreen, strung with silver filament, Lux moved gently through the crowd. They were eager to exchange pleasantries, to bow, to touch hands - all muscle memory, well-maintained. The ambassador's manners were picture perfect, a sign of her pedigree, cleverly disguising the hellish upbringing that had beaten those lessons into what was once soft, malleable flesh.

Questions posed in whispers were answered in kind, silvered tongue as sweet and clear as any musician's bell. Generalities of the Jedi, of war, of life - simple explanations for complicated things, for minds unaccustomed to thinking beyond their quartz chrysalis - rolled easily from her lips, inquiries of economy, of palatial life, of conflict following suit. Her interest was genuine: that such a strange community could thrive in obvious hostility was an uncanny thing, truly. That they built themselves a gemstone palace only further spurred her inquisitiveness.

But the creature that faced her now - one who all at once looked both utterly alien and at home among the revelers - was more sublime than all that came before him.

Her mind blanked. Smile remained, gentle enough to crinkle the edges of painted eyes, as she stepped from the small gathering of officials to approach him in earnest. Manners came easy. Rote memorization of what others longed to hear. A piece in the puzzle of social interaction, no different than the millions of ones and zeroes that dictated the movements of droids.

Bent slightly at the waist, an arm swept behind the small of her back. The other, tucked neatly against her torso, facilitating the bow. Head lowered, dark hair cascading over shoulders wrapped in finery, she held the pose to the count of five - a mental tally for each second as it passed.

Chin tilting upward, she searched for the stranger's gaze as her posture straightened, a moment of silence passing the spaces in between.

"Ambassador Arrel," she offered, equal parts sweetness and serenity. "It's an honor, your Highness."

 

[Toska]

Formality hung in rigid depths. Riddled brow, smoothed the prince's visage to slate. Placid, devoid of expression beyond a single, begrudging nod. The slight failed to darken him, affront masked under lacquer that gilded his lids. Wrought tears beneath, curling up, bending within the fold of a fleshy smile.

The woman dared meet his eyes, gaze darting to measure, test; a ceaseless thing, one that weighed heavily on Dionysus' shoulders. Slumped the taut chord holding him aloft, settled him onto the lavish furnish he adorned. Bold. Appreciation manifested within sight, guarded within a ring of surprise. The guards stirred at this. Shifted on the balls of their feet, gnashing teeth behind visors that obscured their face. Yet immobile, stilled at an offhand flick of their prince's wrist, they were forced to content themselves. Much as he contented his smile to encompass her.

A Jedi. Dignified, graceful, disdainful of surplus. Dressing in modest velvet, robes draping a form that held itself as though suspended by a string. Relaxed, at home, flowing through viscous protocol and taking heed of his station. But that bow! in a robe, nonetheless; offworld customs bemused him. Lit up lips that curved even further. Caged within the lazy tides of regalia, these small victories were all the more poignant.

As an afterthought, he bade her to rise, basking in the momentary rush of control exhilarated in a retroactive command. Frivolous, but such trifles spat acrylic onto the canvas of his life. Brushed out the impurities, refined him to the shape so carefully chiseled from the planet's crystal. He, sovereign of a hidden city, a surrogate for the light his kind never knew.

"The honor of entertaining you, ambassador," he crooned from the gentle lay of his spine, "is mine." Tapping at the last of his coal, he lifted pipe to lip, stole the waning warmth that refused to bequeath its heady incense into his lungs. Ceremony. It lingered in the back of his throat, and he deigned exhale only when satisfied of the woman's attention.

"You are the first of your kind to grace us. Tell me, what brings you to Quarzite?"

In the stiff lull of pomp, aperture tempered by an opiate's kiss, he wished to shudder. It was livid from the backs of his eyes.

 

[Lux]

Much in the way one might fondly remember their grandmother's cooking or the chorus of a song favored throughout childhood, few things came as naturally - and brought such comfort - as the fuss and ceremony of playing to egos whose rank and station outweighed her own. It was a strange thing to take solace in, and she knew it; but awareness had no bearing on her enjoyment of the act, or the ease with which she settled into her role, polite and eager to make acquaintances. Customs surely differed throughout the galaxy, but good manners, at least on the whole, were universal.

But it would be a lie to suggest she did not find some enjoyment in pushing the limits of what was deemed acceptable. Daring to meet his eyes, even so briefly, was proof positive of that. A hint at the self-assured certainty lurking beneath the depths of polite velvet and politic smiles. When she straightened, her fingers interlaced to hang loosely at her front, posture relaxed, gaze only traveling to meet his as she spoke.

"To observe and reflect, Your Grace."

Pausing, Lux let the hint of a smile draw the corners of her mouth. Revealed dimpled cheeks, a bright countenance that seemed to coax mirth from those she focused it on. It was no trick of the Force, not consciously: rather, something innate and unique, as though light itself had taken up residence in a specific angle of tilted lips.

"We know little of life on Quarzite. And now the Jedi seek to correct that oversight."

 

[Toska]

The smile she bore was radiant. Caught the filtered light in a way that beguiled confidence. Sincere from the eaves of her lips, the lines folding in at her cheeks. She sketched an image onto her visage. Split the murk settling in the murk of pomp. Righted herself to belie a macrocosm of cause, a greater want than the crystals halls provided. Composed in worldly prestige, well-traveled from painted lids to slender laced fingers.

Despite himself, it prompted a smile to echo on Dionysus' lips. A show of teeth that drowsily acknowledged her presence, her purpose before him. For the besmirched depths of Quarzite, this woman stood in sunlight. Basked in rays of understanding that coursed to the lowest fathoms of Kage knowledge. The limits of their cloister, locked away beneath a ground harrowed by pressurized air. Within a bubble of isolation, growing apart from the galaxy, from the annals of history where the Jedi's touch reigned supreme.

The woman's very posture promised to herald change. To correct the series of misfortunes leading to isolation; but submerged beneath gilded conversation, intent was a vivid shroud. Uplifted strata in the name of propriety, seeking to search, searching for...

Tattered something hid itself at the curve of her throat, and Dionysus watched it worm through the flesh. Followed contour and layer to the folds of cloth suppressing the surge of naked expression. Uncouth, delicate, but spirited from his eyes, his examination brought only conjecture to sit on his lips. Idle hands traced the upper crest, finger tapping in restless abandon, pursing, mulling as a nod cast chin to chest. Jumped to the beat of his heart.

"As curious a creature to one as the other," he offered. Thumb resting on cheek, tracing jaw to the nook between ear and neck, his gaze lingered. Tripped over hers in reminiscence of that bold show, slipping approval through the cracks that tarried thus. He made for poor showing, adjusting spine to creak himself erect, to gesture off into the midst of those gathered before, apprehension clinging to refute the woman's answering gaze. Discomfit nipped at his heels.

"This meeting is cursory, of course, but viewing such myths will always be a vice of mine."

 

[Lux]

In his presence, music seemed distant, muffled despite the orchestra's proximity. Guards and attendants fell from view, vision tunneled on the radiance that emanated from his isolated throne. It was a strange effect, one she felt ill prepared for, one that no doubt coincided with the mirrored smile as it graced the finely-carved features of his face. Inspired to hold the expression, her head canted softly to the side. An almost imperceptible change, curious and sincere, absorbing all that he granted her.

Slowly, careful to the image she projected, Lux turned her head. Drank in the images of his protectors, of those who advised. To the left, to the right, nodding her approval, before turning the weight of her stare toward Dionysus, his presence utterly luminous in comparison. His was the kind of effervescent energy that could power a city, if properly focused. And Lux couldn't help but wonder if he knew - or if his courtly duties kept him oblivious to the Force, to the machinations of fate unseen.

"An indulgence not entirely without merit," she agreed, playfulness rounding the edges of her tone. There were few sweeter pleasures in life than fine clothing and good company - especially now that extravagance did not follow bloodshed, hand-in-hand. For all her hesitation, the Jedi had done right by her. Sought to grant her the independence she desired with the purpose she needed, one that brought her to strange, new places, fulfilling a sense of wanderlust that only seemed to grow in its suppression.

From the periphery, a familiar face appeared. Older, with expertly coiffed hair tinged violet, as though the shade might detract from the deep wrinkles that settled along the contours of both mouth and eyes. Another diplomat, this one domestic. Her keeper for the time she lingered, no doubt come to steal her away.

"Should I expect to see you attending the festivities?" Asked quickly, as though time were running out. And indeed, it was.

 

[Toska]

Dionysus' brows lifted in the veil of curiosity that followed her glance. Those skittering eyes fell upon the shoulders of another, jilted in their search. Finding the source, an aging wheeze of breath associated with lingering cough, the croup come to ice over the ripples of flesh bumping in the artificial evening glow.

Warmth from the palace crept in spires. Saturated opened windows and lounged on sills, beckoning any who strayed too near to cast off into the lakes bellow. Shimmering pools transmogrified into the majestic arms of beauty. Domineered by lagoons sculpted of quartz, elevated and enriched to myriad colors. A spectrum of blues where yellowed and rust tinged freckles perked in encrusted reefs. Poked out as oolids collecting on the bottom of a shoal. For wandering souls, the lakes called home; for feet, for shoes that could journey no more. Somber in their gentle sway, depths churning to the constant rhythm of refreshers pumping oxygen into bubbles that sizzled up in the occasional pocket.

But, even the lakes' regalia could not deter Dionysus from trailing after her gaze. Struggling to catch a hint of those iridescent orbs, dull, raw from the earth in their pull from fixated pupils. He failed to refuse himself, fingers rubbing against one another in the pursuit of simple pleasures. Tracing the downturned lashes and painted lids. They stirred him. Stirred to the pits of his scantly clothed belly. Riled an overbearing weight that caught him in an absent moment, in whorls of uncertainty in headlong flight.

The interior of his chambers, the resplendence that laced the boundaries of his painted world—they accounted for nothing in comparison. And he freely sought the act, furrowed in contemplation as he lingered onward, nodding at the tapering end of her speech.

It betrayed a longing. Provoked him to listen, to hear more of those foreign tones. Scratching out from his chest, a child hammering at his ribs to escape, acknowledging through a wrist the shackles that bound him. Enmeshed him in gold, in power that slipped beneath the weave of his senses. A drug so sweet that it thought to hide the gentle intoxication this presence bore him.

A tongue flicked over his lips. Whetted the bottom, drew back to unhinge the seal on his smile.

"Only," he said, "if the ambassador cares to accompany me. I would not do to be bereft of such an opportunity."

 

[Lux]

Dread mounted as steps drew nearer, the polished smile and extended arms eager to remove her from his presence. Those words that fell from her lips were bold - an invitation without saying as much, thinly veiled, easy to decipher among those with the mind to do so. He was a sublime creature, stranger than the planet he might someday rule, and Lux grasped for his presence the only way she knew how: with clever words, speaking one thing, meaning another entirely.

With a hand pressed gently against her shoulder, her guide made his presence known. The subtle pressure of duty weighing against velvet, palm nestled against the small of her back to show her where to move. He had arrived in time to hear the Prince's declaration, and gave pause at the request. Shot a look of confusion between man and woman, between Jedi and heir apparent, mouth agape as though such a thing had never been considered.

In defiance of that which might take her away, Lux raised her chin. Shifted it upward ever so slightly, pulled the thread of her spine tighter, shrugging away the insistent touch of her guide. She dared to take a half step forward, closer to the throne than any common stranger had a right to be, displaying eager excitement that buried itself between the pomp and splendor of courtly duties.

"Nor would I." Smile slipped toward the sly, bow repeated, eyes once again finding his. "My company is yours for as long as you'll have it, Highness."

At her back, guardsmen shifted. Distrust settled between shoulderblades, silent suspicions in the weight of their stares.

 

[Toska]

The man's displeasure was such that he forgot his place. To bow before his liege. Chin hanging to tip against the hollow of his throat, flustered from scraping palms that no longer bore the touch of arch, of back to brace himself from sovereign heights, he stammered. An apology came in murmurs, woven as an overlay for the woman's speech. Churning a heady wince, he settled into a bow, knee bent and prostrating himself before the prince.

A show that served only to embolden the woman. Daring, enough that she turned heads and shot eyes through with livid veins of envy. Greed engulfed the room; that she could be so audacious as to present herself, unbidden nonetheless, before their lord, to stand in the absence of faith in front of his light. An offworlder. One blind to the piety that struck them speechless. Ground through teeth and jaw at the green plumes of willowy, slackjawed rage.

It engineered a flurry within the room. Brokered whispers that scurried past in livery and finely cut suits. Tailored to fit, slipping over form in the manner of voices dripping poison into the ears of any bent willing to listen.

Dionysus smiled. That lazy smile, radiant from the grace of the woman's own. He bequeathed it to them. Forgave any trespass against his will; for theirs was none other than an extension of his. The natural arm that took to scribble out what words he voiced. To proclaim each soft spoken phrase as absolute. So he smiled. Reflected sympathy as he bade the diplomat to rise.

But he did not address him; no, he reserved himself for the ambassador.

"You may yet grow bored," he mused. "It shall be long before I tire of your company. Your very presence answers questions that have gnawed at me since my prepubescent years."

 

[Lux]

Rules existed to be broken. Boundaries, to be pushed. Lux was not ignorant of the onlookers, nor did she ignore the way they seemed flabbergasted by her boldness - as though Dionysus existed in a lofty bubble, never to be looked at directly, never to be gazed upon for too long. It was fascinating, truly. To say his situation was unique would be doing him a disservice; the palace, the reverence of his subjects, his strange and sublime demeanor, all paled in comparison to what she had experienced in her travels. A true curiosity, one she hoped to unravel in the short time they had allotted for her stay. It was an impossible task, but the challenge made her all the more determined to plumb the mysteries of Quarzite's resident divinity.

Her ersatz companion ignored, left to fend for himself in the absence of fealty, Lux stole a deep breath of perfumed air, allowing the traces of smoke to dive deep beneath the confines of her chest. Warm and sweet, it was a foreign sensation. But not entirely unpleasant, even despite the soft burn that clung to her throat, demanding some recourse as it embedded itself beneath uninitiated flesh.

"Unlikely." Words to counter his thoughtful concern, smile honest, wide.

The weight of attention seemed poised to burn through the robes on her back. Did they live in terror of their prince? Or were they simply too enamored with him to do anything but be cowed by his presence? It was remarkable - and Lux could hardly imagine what permitted him to have such a powerful sway. Perhaps it was the Force after all, or a comely face born of royal blood. A bit of both, even.

"A modest proposition, Your Grace: the answers to anything you could think to ask," Lux paused, a hand lifting to rake through her hair, waves pooling against velvet shoulders. There was a feline quality to her smile, all-knowing, full of mischief.

Breath caught in the throats of their onlookers. Teeth bared behind masks, cruel stares to silently put her in place. Perhaps they would've, had she not ignored them outright.

Arm outstretched, wrist turned to display the softness of her palm, she negotiated the terms of their deal. "In exchange for the honor of a dance."

 

[Toska]

Belabored breaths hitched in the backs of onlooking throats; the audacity, she went beyond bold, daring, oblivious of the absolute fervor she instilled within the room. Guardsmen stiffened, rotated on necks that shifted to encompass the room, to drink in the sight of the quieting crowd. Where music once played, where conversation once rolled in droll pockets of conspiracy, silence adorned. Bled through each eave and nook, wheedling into hearts that stilled until the only sound remaining was the ambassador's own.

It clamored. Rang out through the hall, against crystal pillars and panes, resonating as it caught on stuttering lips and twitching rungs of incomprehension. Caustic, hostile, her audience awaited with judgement exploding to their fingertips. Grasped at hooks and knives, clutched hilts and bit into lips, drew blood for want, to satiate an outrage that knew no rational end.

Dionysus... in his lavish trance, rapture bracing lips to smile in facile radiance, was oblivious. In his entirety, he saw only the ambassador, her devious honesty. So plain, so open in her desires, etching a contract into the air. Wide gestures to encompass it, designate terms, to present herself for his taking. Some nervous flutter within his chest hesitated. Brought his fingers curling onto her palm but failing to grasp, suspended there as he searched her gaze.

That touch was more than any could bear: guards, they cried! seize her. An outpouring of voices who dared furious mimicry of the ambassador. They moved, a veritable wall of people churning liquid formation. Edging closer with nails biting, curled back into snarls and sneers, cheeks flush and red and spluttering with every step.

Standing from his dais, Dionysus lifted a hand.

"The honor is yours, ambassador," he said, pulling himself down by her outstretched arm. Hooking himself over her, ballast to the swaying force of his waist, equilibrium lost in this dizzying rush, he yet refused to address anyone else.

 

[Lux]

An audience of enemies. Of sharp teeth, of pointed swords, of impotent rage. Lux considered herself above the maddening crowd, deigned to exist on a plane that only Dionysus himself could reach, sliding down from his lofty throne to meet her in the purgatory between sainthood and the mundane.

Without hesitation, she pulled him near. Wrapped fingers around the delicate angles of his hand, slipped an arm behind the small of his back, drawing him snugly to her side. Touch firm, confident, speaking of certainty. Up close, the scent of warmth lingered on her skin, chased itself through the dark forest of her hair. Light and resinous, all golden heliotrope and cinnamon, sunshine cresting the tops of mountains to dispel the cold cast of dawn.

Beneath them, subjects stirred. Whispers became a chorus that threatened to overwhelm both beat and melody, strange curses on stranger lips lobbed like quiet mines that fell flat at her feet. He was sublime. Terrifying and beautiful and strange, and with his form pressed so close to hers, Lux felt immortality brush against the edges of her grasp.

Head tilted just slightly nearer, she fixed him with a smile that sang of wanton flirtatiousness. Radiance muted only by the curtain of hair that demanded dispelling as it crested the side of her face. "Then I shan't waste it."

 

[Toska]

No jealousy ground teeth flat, gnashed to bloody rote, such as the concubines'. Those women whose painted faces hid behind gauzy veils, whose bright crimson nails slipped out of long sleeves, titillating pleasure for such small peeks of flesh; and for all their smiles, their demurring titters from the dais' shadow, their lips were contorted. Their conversation muted, rife and green despite the eunuchs' attempts to dissuade them. There, in those lonely eyes, settled an envy that dared follow after the prince. That dared charge the ambassador with treason, guilty beyond reasonable doubt.

But ignorance, woefully bliss from the tides and scheming rage that festered in their midst, treated Dionysus to a dance. One he took with due apt, steps trailing in the heady sin of belabored breaths, font welling up in his stomach and playing at the quivering lines of his lips. He smiled for her. Saw only her, that foreign wraith whose very form expanded under the attentions. His, the crowd's, it swelled in her bosom, chiseled confidence that was once embellished by placid propriety. Polite to a point, affixed with the airs of state and an aloof cant to match.

Dionysus longed for the empty circle at the foot of his throne. That every step drew him in too slow, slurred across marble as lay serpents, mesmerized by the sound of a flute. The samba played on, distant, nervous. Focus split between song and sun. The ensemble played such music as Dionysus cared to dance, entwined in a mesh of limbs as nails slid over his back. Found arch, found the smallest nook in his spine, and wrapped him up. Enraptured by the movement, the skill with which he was entangled.

Escape came as a breath, a heavy sigh that leaped from his chest. It was stolen from him, returning an ache to his lungs. Demanded payment for those audacious, wandering eyes; for the long, apprising gaze that sought each contour and curve resting behind robes and velvet. A swallow licked at his lips.

"Never have I danced such, ambassador. Offworld traditions strike me so strangely, and yet with a vividness requisite to... learn."

 

[Lux]

If they tried her as a villain, saw her as the spoiler of something holy and divine, Lux intended to act the part. To hide behind layers of courtly manners and a script so stifling in its politically correctness held little appeal, regardless of the venue. But to let the punishment fit the crime - to steal a dance from their revered prince - was utterly thrilling, coaxed her heart to pace beneath her ribcage, breathing soft and shallow as he made his way into her arms.

Against tradition, Lux allowed herself to lead. To guide his movements with her own, bodies mirrored in time with the symphony at their backs. Gently, at first. Building to a quicker tempo, to a more insistent touch, trading what was proper for what was more enjoyable, more passionate, more fun. Mirth reflected itself in the darkness of her eyes, in the flashes of an unguarded smile.

Until the music stopped, and they were alone - save for the eyes of judgement that clung to their interlocked forms, burning hot in their accusation.

Unable to help herself, she breathed him in. Wrestled with the folds of impossibly fine fabrics, seeking out the angles beneath. The truth of his form, separated by the thinnest veil but no longer hidden from her touch. He filled her lungs with smoke, with something sweet, inspired curiosity to scratch at the barriers of decorum. To satisfy a longing for knowledge that would undoubtedly find her at the end of more than simply pointed stares.

"There is much to learn from one another," offered in near-silence, her voice a gift only for his ears. "I'm sure of it."

 

[Toska]

Burning, the cinders of damnation wrought them through holy flames. Chiseled out figure and froth in the name of divinity, whispered promises with tones and eyes that scathed at every turn; that took to them, cemented to frame, longing after the touch they shared. Writhing in self-deprecation for that very desire.

None had such audacity, and yet the ambassador dared without batting an eye. Molded herself to the prince with sashay liquid against his wrist. Nails on flesh, cloth to cloth, breath falling in the heady space of licked lips and swallowed wants. It perspired on the air. The scent of their bodies moving in tandem. Swaying not where the music demanded, but where the ambassador's feet decided.

There was a certain peace in that lack of control. A luxury so long denied to Dionysus that its briefest glimmer had his eyes wet, slick to lacquered lashes. He betrayed himself in the grace that bled from his steps. Echoing her, a spectre in his own halls. Pale, blood skittering for perch in his veins, drained to the lightest of pallors yet flush in the cheeks.

Smiling. He smiled in reservation's absence.

Through belabored gasps, fingers rising against hip and frame, he agreed with her, "Yes," he said, stumbling between words in a euphoric delight, "and I would have you teach to exhaustion," he cried, gentle laughter chiding his lips.

 

[Lux]

Breathless, but not from exertion, Lux matched his smile atom for atom. Let the unguarded enjoyment spill from her eyes, from lips that parted to echo his laughter, from fingers that embedded themselves in his garments to still the need for further closeness. Desires welled up beneath her breast - to run the lengths of fingertips through his hair, to steal the warmth from his utterly innocent mien. But there was daring, and there was improper; regardless of the words they shared, Lux knew better than to overstep her bounds with the cavalier enthusiasm that whispered from the depths of her heart.

"It's far too early for exhaustion," she teased, a small shake of her head accompanying the words.

Bewitched, she lingered. Hovered closer, palm rising to drag soft fingers along the angle of a perfect cheek. The barest whisper of a touch, gliding backwards, sweeping hair behind the shell of an ear. Thumb tracing the curve of his chin, Lux's gaze trained itself on his lips, darted between eyes and the soft mouth that so sorely tempted her, struggling for restraint. Fighting against the insistent tide that beckoned her ever nearer.

"Pace yourself." The words were for his benefit, and her own. "We can dance all night." A promise, lacking the innocence of that which brought laughter to his lips. Visceral sincerity, lingering even as she loosened her grip.

 

[Dionysus]

Lips smacking of enthusiasm, he readily eased himself into her grip. Towards the nails that bit deep through fabric, winding them close until their breath hovered just shy of a kiss. A quavering sigh beckoned him, loosened the chord hanging from his shoulders, molding against her frame.

He was small.

Fragile, a delicate thing on the precipice of collapse, driven breathless by a single dance. Stolen smiles and lucid grins ground comprehension to his gaze. Struck in glistering crystal all the wants he knew not how to enact. He abased himself. Buckling at the knee to spread himself along the contours of her grasp. Heaving out the last sketch of their dance. Racing along with the fervor of his heart; it thrummed at his wrists, at every joint that lay interwoven with hers. Each juncture, overridden by that centrifuge of ecstasy, and nowhere for it to go. No outlet.

For all he lacked in reprieve, the depths of him found solace in those arms. Steadied, composed, drawn forth in the sheer gravity that tugged at his chest. Nestled in the hollows, collapsing ribs and emptying out the slivers of frivolous being: anything that refused to acknowledge her, that denied him the pleasure of tunneling himself into her eyes, her dance.

At an arm's length, no closer, he managed to laugh.

"Of course," he said, lost to the hostility, to the bitten-nail reverence begging for purchase on lips and eyes, "but a moment." With a snap, he ordered a pair of goblets, ushered in livery skittering about the floor, nervously bowing and offering gold to outstretched palms. From a decanter, liquid spilled a madder red. Dribbled over until each cup was filled to satisfaction.

"I find myself parched. Drink with me, ambassador, as I take my reprieve."

 

[Lux]

Perhaps a lifetime of hardship had brought her to this moment, guided along by threads of fate. Her form had learned the meaning of strength so that she might hold him aloft, that he could fall weightless against her grasp and still remain standing. She had learned manners, had studied dance, had learned to move with purpose and serenity - for what, if not to bewitch him? In that moment, ensnared by his pull, Lux could see no other reason for the life she had endured. Steps through misery to deliver her to light, to bring her to his throne, wide-eyed and eager to be known.

Fingers snapped, and the world came into focus. The guards, the servants. His waiting concubines. The jealousy that seemed to leech into the air, as though they could expel it through their nostrils, through the pores on painted skin. It brought infatuated wanderings back to ground level, summoned pragmatism from the depths of fantasy. Her smile faltered, ever so slightly, but only for the length of a blink. The sight of him was enough to render her speechless, the ceremony that accompanied his whims all at once familiar but strange. None dared to question their prince, and yet, they made their dissatisfaction so plainly known.

Perhaps he was oblivious to it. Willfully, or otherwise.

"Gladly." Agreement came easily - what guest turned down wine? What envoy would demur their way from an audience with the ruling monarchy? With reluctance, she slowly slackened her grip. Let the arm around his back fall loose, free hand finding its home around the golden vessel as it sat offered. Not entirely free of her, but rather, given room to breathe.

"Would you prefer to sit?" Concern crested the eaves of her expression, question posed before even the thought of a sip crossed her mind.

 

[Dionysus]

Entrenched on the cusp of a dance, oily shadows washed away by the crest of his brow, Dionysus' breath came in ready gulps. Controlled, worming from lung to throat, throat to nostril. Heaving out in slow gasps, expunged as rapturous poison, the heady glow of translucent smoke rimming his eyes. Stole silver to a lazy blue, ebbing between crystal and dream, catching and parting.

He hissed out a sigh, lips licked by a cool kiss. Wine, sweet and red, dripping euphoria and sickly with murk, doused him. Painted the natural luster of pale flesh, rose flush and embroidered in trembling resonance. His heart thrummed along to a beat that long since stopped. Mirrored the steel ring of drums and tallow pull of flutes, strings plucked in twangs and gentle bows... lingered underfoot, at heel and toe, skittering to the sway, to a lucrid chuckle that swept him to comfort's open embrace.

"Perhaps," he said, agreeing beyond the low tilt of his chin. Nodded to words that brushed his ears, wrapped around him so sonorous that they stung in the crevices between ribs. Jabbed at the cage, pried loose the tumbling thoughts and bearings unsuited to the murmur of protest accompanying his every move.

Inappropriate. The way his hand hovered near the ambassador's. How he bent slight to hear, rapt and attentative for each crashing phrase. Lumbering echoes in an emptied hall, one large enough only for two. For the prince and his consort, partner of dance and entertainment that provided succor so foreign that the weeping rivulets of gold beneath his eyes steered true. Pleated capture provoked by innovation. Progress to deny the constancy of stagnation that enmeshed his soul.

Little else satisfied him; little else could claim ownership of that beacon. Glistering under crystalline falselight. Quavering to mercurial tides that shifted on his retainers' moods.

He beckoned her to join him. Heedless, irreverent in a manner befitting of a Quatorze. Split by caste, ear to ear in a low, lucid smile, he urged her onto the sofa.

"Accompany me," he bade, "it will not do to have me sit without your solace."

 

[Lux]

There was nothing to do but sit.

Even at her most stubborn, Lux would've been powerless to resist such a simple command as it tumbled from pale lips. Neither a request nor a suggestion, it was instead a gentle order she found herself following without thought, without a moment's hesitation, a puppet on a string that danced to his whims. The prince requested her company and she acquiesced; as simple as breathing, as effortless as the fluttering of lashes that accompanied a glass tipped back.

The Jedi ambassador took her spot beside him, legs crossed politely at the knee, the weight of a kingdom resting squarely on her shoulders. Their judgment settled in the angles of her collar, molded to the contours of her frame, but under his presence - in the effervescence of his persona - their attentions felt weightless. Lighter than air, as immaterial as dust, as inconsequential as their tiny little rock had ever been to the galaxy at large. The briefest glance set her imagination aloft. To hold his stare, to gaze into strange eyes that seemed to know eons, filled her with an ineffable feeling of light.

Wine flowed. Laced with divinity, of the faintest glimmer of the galaxy's secrets, it wound itself through her bloodstream. Chased itself beneath muscle and bone, rushed to her head, loosened her tongue. The words didn't matter: smiles shared, punctuated by laughter, questions and answers delivered in a singsong call and response, it all came so easily. Fascination that parted long enough to offer a hint of understanding, attentions shifting to dancers and courtesans, their prince no longer in moral danger from the off-worlder who had seduced him so.

They were flash and fire and melody, amusements for the crown, for the guest of honor. Bottles fell, golden chalices emptied in time.

With all the creeping slowness of a shadow as it crawled along the angles of his crystalline home, fingers wandered. Enmeshed with that of their chosen one, tip interlocked against tip, daring not to move any further.