#fia02 { width: 400px; background: #fff url('http://i1140.photobucket.com/albums/n571/britcurtisxo/fia/header02.jpg') top center no-repeat; padding-top: 350px; padding-bottom: 15px; border: 1px solid #000; color: #000; font-family: georgia; font-size: 14px; text-align: justify; }
#fia02 h1 { color: #8f0000; font-size: 14px; text-align: right; font-weight: bold; margin: 0 15px; }
#fia02 p { margin: 10px 20px; line-height: 15px; }
#fia02 .ooc { color: #525243; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 15px; }
#fia02 .speak { color: #c33535; font-weight: bold; }
</style>
i can't escape the twisted way you think of me
SSWM: 751.
i feel you in my dreams and i don't sleep
The words Naniko spoke were music to Fiachra's ears. A merry time. Fiachra herself was having better than a merry time; this was very nearly a dream come true. Her snow white queen fascinated her, left her wanting more. She had never felt what she felt now, but it wasn't unpleasant. It was, in fact, among the most pleasant, if not unnerving, sensations that she had ever encountered. The first glimpse of her queen had left her breathless; this second encounter was more like having her stomach twisted in knots on top of it. But it was somehow not dismaying to feel so out of sorts. Probably the alcohol. Her vision was blurring as she, too, poured a second glass. She could hold her liquor, but this stuff was strong. Very strong. Maybe even too strong to be drinking it with her queen. But it was far too late for that now. Drunk, she was.
Fiachra laughed softly as she listened to Naniko's explanation for her poison daggers. "I won't tell, my lady," she replied, her voice nearly a whisper. She tried to speak normally as she continued her thought. "A lover, eh. I'm the same way. But if I put poison on this - her voice was staying just above a whisper as she pulled her rosary out from under her shirt and held it up - I would end up dead. I play with it too much. She held out her hand, which was marked with one clean cut, a product of mixing blood with Naniko, and many deep scratches. They had a salve over them, and were healing nicely, but it was clear that they were mostly fresh. "One of those.. the clean one.. that's from you. The rest are from playing with this." She held the rosary up in her other hand and smiled wryly. "Nervous habit," she explained. She couldn't raise her voice. What was wrong with her?
It occurred to her that her queen had not pronounced her name correctly. Gently and passively, she said to the lady, "My name is Fiachra. Fee-AH-ker-ah. You may call me Fia, if you like. Most people do. My name is difficult." Her parents had been insane when they'd named her. She was named after a saint - Saint Fiacre, or Saint Fiachra in Irish. He had been male, but the name was fitting enough for both genders. She didn't usually mind her name, except at times like these, where she had to awkwardly explain how to pronounce her name. She smiled a little and sipped her drink, watching Naniko closely. She could not, for the life of her, pull her gaze away from her queen. She closed her eyes. That worked. She opened them again, and her gaze fixated itself right back to Naniko. Dear God.
Before she could stop herself, words rose from her throat. "You are very pretty, my lady," she whispered, almost inaudibly. She was glad for how quiet her voice was now, hoping that she went unheard. Christ, she was drunk. Her vision slipped and slid, and she leaned on the table for support. How she wished to simply lay down.. but not in the presence of her snow white queen. If only.. 'No!' her mind snapped as she imagined, half against her will, curling up with Naniko and talking until they slept. 'Don't think of these things,' her mind chastised. 'It won't happen. You will only be disappointed, let down. She is your queen, not your lover.' Her stomach turned. She took another sip. What was this feeling, this longing? As her vision swayed, her queen sat, as beautiful as ever, and Fiachra found that, in that moment, she could not look away. She never wanted to look away.
Something occurred to her, and in typical drunk fashion, it spilled from her lips quickly and without thinking. "My lady.. have you a mate?" It was really none of her business, and apology swept over her features as she gritted her teeth. What was she thinking? 'You are being terrible tonight,' she thought to herself angrily. 'Why can you not just hold your tongue?' She would have to do something. Play it cool, keep it casual. Make it clear that she had not asked for interest's sake, but merely as conversation. She sipped her drink as her mind laughed at her. 'She knows, pet,' it taunted her gleefully. 'She knows, and you will still never have her.'