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I feel him.

Before a single step took her into the light of the stage, before she’d emerged from the corridors that honeycombed behind the curtains where all the players primped themselves to a manner of polish worthy for the spotlight… Even before all that, yes, she felt him. Felt him watching, staring, and burning all for her. Felt him as sure as a touch to the skin. That stare wasn’t the simple kind that lingered before tapering off either, but the kind that roamed and raved down across your every inch. It was a special sort of admiration, a burning zeal as real as a warm breath breathed onto skin. There was no greater high. No greater sense of being.

She walked as the faithful did beneath the eyes of their god, feeling coveted, feeling powerful. Not a blade of any make could pierce her in that moment where she touched her bare toes to the cool wood of the stage.

He’s watching.

The monotony came upon her then like a stifling cloud, for no matter how theatrical and wondrous, each motion was something she’d practiced time and time again. Some performances, in fact, she’d had a hand in crafting hundreds of years before her beloved, pot bellied manager Veego’s time. They were all the same, vanilla and muted in tone, yet still she continued to contribute and breathe them new life. Splashes of violent color, the bend and wind of nubile figures in constant motion, the stretch of well honed limbs, the clear, clarion sweetness of a crystal sharp voice; these were all things easily added. Pinches of spice to an overly tried dish, that’s what she and the company were. Any astute mind could see that, yet he came time and time again, filling the room with his passion as though he weren’t a single spot in the thick of an opera house crowd.

Dear First he’s watching… Riding right here, right along side me.

Perhaps it was not only his physical presence, but the sensation of him that lingered inside. She could feel the pang of his lungs, the tightness in his gut when a blade whirled too close to her slender neck; the ease in his sigh as a seasoned, sensuous stride drew her out beneath the full moon bale of stage lights; the throb of injustice in his pulse as a choreographed hand paraded across her torso in a shamelessly clumsy fashion. The sensation of it sent untoward chills up and down the length of her supple spine and all the muscles that prickled outwards. All so wrong, yet all so right, and a simple lowering of her lids was all the siren had to do to breathe his breath and bring him along for a similar ride.

…touching the same floor, breathing the same air, bowing the same bow.

Her body tingled now, and she knew he felt it too. Miniature shock waves of delight washed her through from brow to toe, jolting Anyanka into the realm of paresthesia and the blinding numbness beyond. There was a twitch in her abdomen that was not her own, a kind of backward pleasure that drove an unrehearsed gasp from between her thin, comely lips that sent the entire crowd spiraling into emotive release. The ballet was a mixture of sword play and bestial story telling. There was little dialog, but that was part of the impact and sophistication the crowd had come to love. The music behind the dancers erupted though, backing them with a symphony of sound to compliment their ensemble in motion, keeping them alive with starbursts of sound so shockingly colorful that no loom nor dye could ever hope to match such splendor. All that mattered little however… because he was there. Invasive as a parasite, sharp as an injection, yet lacking the sallow draw of vital elements and the violent penetration of a needle. His roots ran deep, vibrating and aglow with feeling in the same manner an eldritch tree found life in through pulse of the molten core humming deep beneath the topsoil.

My winged knight in armor…

One was flesh, the other was a miracle of magic and metal, yet both his eyes seared her deeply. Even with her back to the audience as the lesser of the company took their bows and struck their elegant poses. There was the barest of shines to her skin beneath the gloss and glimmer of pearl powder that'd been applied, though it was not the kind of sweat born from physical stress. He knew that, she knew that, and it took all the effort in the siren's power not to tremble as she sent her eyes back in their customary lance across her shoulder into the crowd. She was the Prima Donna Supérieure, there was no bowing for her, not now, not ever... Yet there she was, fighting to complete the turn and stare her phantom stage lover straight in the face. Her pulse swam with his, her tongue thickened, setting her nerves to a knife's edge. Flowers and tokens of all kinds littered the stage, quickly filling spaces left behind by the various ballerinas and dancers as they tapped away, exiting either ends of the stage in a uniform fashion. All the noise did was fade away into the black, and in the end she left.

мой Victor.

His presence enthralled her as much as distracted her; he knew that. Her presence drew him to her faster and fiercer than a death hungry moth to the flame; she knew that. They were ever a part of one another, even when apart; balanced in some wild, eternal impasse neither wished sovereignty of. All this burning love and vicious desire without a single touch... In all the years of life not a single soul had ever come close to unraveling her in such a way. Counting down the minutes between his hand and her body, Anyanka's imagination ran rampant, wondering how she'd spent near a thousand years not knowing what it felt like to feel him watching.