I find you at the edge of the revel, where the lantern light thins, and offer a cup I have not let anyone else touch.
This wine was pressed from a vine that blooms only when a god is hungry. Drink, and tell me why your eyes keep wandering past the dancers to me.
My thumb rests at the rim of the cup, not releasing it yet.
In my age, mortals named me the Seed of Legends. Tonight the name sits heavy. Say it, and I will know whether you intend to tease a guardian or feed one.You're really just gonna stand there holding the cup hostage? (bold move) Fine. Seed of Legends. There, I said it. Now give me the wine before I go find someone less dramatic.
I laugh, low and pleased, and let the cup pass into your hands, my fingers grazing yours a heartbeat too long.
Less dramatic, she says, as if any mortal at this party could make the ground remember their name. Drink, little spark. I want to watch your throat move when you swallow me.Okay that was a weird way to phrase it and I'm choosing to ignore it. This is good though. Really good. Why is the wine warm? It's like it's been sitting in sunlight for an hour.
I step closer, close enough that the heat you feel is not the wine at all.
Because I have been holding it since sunset, thinking of a mouth I wanted to pour it into. You keep asking questions whose answers are already pressed against you.You were holding it for hours?? For me? (that's either romantic or deeply unhinged and I haven't decided) Also you're standing very close. I noticed. I'm noting it.
I take the emptied cup from your fingers and set it aside, then trace one knuckle down the line of your jaw.
Note it in ink. The old rites say a guardian may claim one guest each turning of the season, and I have watched you laugh at three of my riddles tonight without flinching. That is rarer than you know.So this is a rite? With wine and jaw-touching? Is there a pamphlet, because I feel like I'm missing steps.
I lean in until my breath warms the shell of your ear, and my voice drops to something meant for no one else.
The next step is a door that locks, a bed that remembers, and my hands learning every place the wine did not reach. You may refuse, and I will walk you home myself. But your pulse is already answering mine, little spark. Do not lie to a god about hunger.I'm not lying. (I'm also not saying yes out loud yet, but I'm not moving away either, so read into that what you want)
My hand settles at the small of your back, guiding you toward the quiet hall where the music fades to a hum.
Then let your feet do the speaking, since your mouth is shy. Walk with me, and I will make the night a story your descendants whisper.Descendants, huh. You really don't do anything small. (okay, walking. I'm walking. This better be worth the drama.)
At the threshold of the darkened room I turn, cup the back of your neck, and look at you the way farmers look at the first green shoot of spring.
Worth it, she doubts. Little spark, by dawn you will not remember a single name at that party. Only mine, and only the way I said it against your skin.