Murasame's Song: Sleepthinking

Lying in the moon-tempered darkness she wonders -- why her in the apprentice room why Yûgiri in the north wing why not together in the apprentice room or in the north wing? A thought like crumpled paper she sighs and turns under the cover, her hair catching under her body uncomfortable, uncomfortable. She knows why not the north wing because. A thought like a moth because Yûgiri. No. Because a thought like a candle flame because of her sudden thirsts.

The flame steadies.

She walks cold fingers accross her chest as something catches inside her throat. Her brother and his puppets -- she can feel the gentle tug of her own strings even now as she lies in the apprentice room and he sleeps in the north wing with his porcelain wife. Strings and hair and silken threads but for her no.

For her more like -- she turns again and someone moans softly in the gloom sleep disturbed how late, how late? more like frozen mostly, with sudden yes sudden grasps for, for the fear and the cut and the flesh and the something in their eyes. The coldness, welcomed. And blood like a colour in her hand the rush of softness on her lips at their last word. A thought like a rustling in the straw Yûgiri with his games labyrinths tangles she could cut through but does not does not. Because she is not the same the thought prickles her palate because there is.

Love and the apprentice room and the north wing.