She is everything that he is and everything that he is not.
The Push of Bones
With months since their last tryst, it is only fitting that Nuada spend a full day to learn his sister anew. He consecrates her to memory as she is at this moment and she is perfect. She moves like the sea beneath his hands, rising smoothly until her back is curved as sweetly as the trembling O of her mouth. With her lips parted just so, on a cry as high and clear as a bell, she slides back into the swirl of sheets.
“So very lovely,” he says. Milk-pale thighs close to trap his wrist and he lays kisses like a litany of prayers down the very centre of Nuala’s chest. Each fading shiver of her pleasure echoes inside him, and he holds to them like the most precious of favours.
The sheen of sweat graces both their forms, the smell of their repeated coupling heavy in the closed air of the bedchambers. His prick rests limp and spent between them with nothing left to give and still he is greedy for the softness of her. Her skin that should be no different than his own.
To know the discrepancies go deeper, into the push of bones that shape the base curves of Nuala’s form. It maddens him. Long has it been since they could swap clothes and play merry with guards; members of court; their own kin. That he can not slip on the mantle of her identity, makes her all the more precious to him.
“How pure you are.”
“No more pure than you.” She sets her hand upon his cheek, her smile as benevolent and welcoming as her body.
He mirrors the smile—lips in the same gentle curve, teeth as white and straight—while anger festers like a putrid wound beneath the mask of his face. How foolish she is, how very blind she must be not to sense the sick writhing of his rage. The consuming desire to pattern her with bruises so he might live with the ache of it for days.
Only the threat of her weeping holds him in check. With each passing year she grows more beautiful in ways he can not cultivate, and so he strengthens his swordarm and tempers his fury in the salle. She is everything that he is and everything that he is not, and she should not pretend otherwise.
“More so, dear sister,” he insists, renewing his waning smile. He nuzzles a kiss at the dip of her navel and closes his eyes to impress her upon his memory by touch and scent alone. “Pure as new fallen snow, or a twinkling star shining brighter than all the rest in the canopy of the nighttime sky.”
“Hardly,” she says. Her fingernails scratch along his scalp as she buries her fingers in his hair. She twists the strands around her fingers, and her eyes drift shut as the dully pleasurable sensation spreads to her own skin. “For if I rest amongst the heavens than you must not be far, shining with an equivalent light.”
Nuada lays his head upon Nuala’s chest, his hurt going unfelt by his sister. In the chiming echo of her laugh, he forgives her even her falsehoods.