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Posted on January 26, 2013 at 07:05:49 PM by pompeii
She tilts her head as he thinks on the name he shall call her and to her it seemed a mite silly. She liked to be called Red, why did she not just tell him to call her that?
She lays her soft face against his neck again while he does this seconds worth of contemplation - happy for the feel of ‘rightness’ that had escaped her with Romanukia. She had always pursued. She had always followed. This was the first time that the tables had turned. She feels as though she should play games with him, make him wonder - that is not her nature, though. Her instincts are always her go to, emotions and silly civilized things only now starting to color her purest nature. She thinks she likes that her coat is so dark and inky. She thinks she likes that he is so very much bigger than her.
He is safe like Hawthorn is safe, like Makism is safe, like Tarquin is safe. To make it all the more beautiful, the look in his eyes is unlike anything he has ever seen on the face of another. Hawthorn often had a tweak of concern in the corners of his loving gaze - then Makism never looked like that anymore… and well, Tarquin never had in the first place. The look is positively the most awesome spectacle she had ever witnessed. The northern lights, the nights on mountain tops watching falling stars, the great red tides that tortured and overturned shorelines, great beasts that swam off the coast, the sound of a calf elks first bugle, the mass flock migration that blotted out the sky with their bodies, the mongoose fighting a cobra… all of that and nothing came close to inspiring awe as the look on his face did.
She flicks her ear as he speaks the name he shall call her - their secret name that could be whispered in the warm embrace they would share in the nights. His voice thrills her, glad she is now for him being more civilized. His voice is lovely, enchanting, rich and solid. It was all she could do to keep from trying to shake away the hair-raising tingle down her spine. When he continues with his name, she pulls up to turn a evaluating eye on how he says the words, forms the sounds. “Yohjeem…Yohjeembooh...” she mumbles. Her face twists up as she trying to fashion the words the way he had, lips pulling back and tongue fumbling. She is a comical sight, but then anyone who knew Pompeii well enough would be impressed with her dedication. She didn’t often spend long trying to form words.
“YohJeemBoh… Yojimbo.” Her face brightens suddenly as she snaps her gaze up to his and the word comes through the veil of wildness and crosses the divide. She tilts her heads as he offers other names - and then bids her discover a name for him. Her eyes flick wildly to the sides, trying as she could to think of something as special sounding as his name had seemed.
She looks… leaf, twig, branch, bark, shadow, light, sun, sky… yet everything she had learned of language does not complete her concept of him well enough. “Mine.” She says under her breath… her brow furrows. She whispers with a little more investigation, “Mine.” She looks up to the black male then, realization coming across her face as she remembers what it was that her mother taught her about her travels. “You my north star.” She smiles, excited for being so very clever.
He was her northern star, the thing she sought out when she was lost, the brightest beacon in her life. He was the surest thing - the only thing that never faltered. “My mate.” She nips his fur then on his shoulder and tugs him before releasing him and whirling to duck into the bramble bushes. She disappears for a few moments and then sticks her head out of the slight opening as if expecting him to follow. “Mine! Come see!” she insists like a little girl hoping for approval from someone about her pretty dress or pretty drawing.
wild-woman of the gypsies; sister of hawthorn
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