THERE IS SOMETHING TO THE NOTION of a starving woman and her endless font: agatha is and has been a desperately feral creature, raised on scraps of this thing, this love, to the point that she evolved to do without. her mother was a woman she lived with, never anything kinder or closer, and she did stop trying after awhile. clever agatha, never one to overstay her welcome, to suffocate under the pressure of fitting a square peg into a round hole.
she has convinced herself that she hungers for other things, and she does, but mura satisfies those urges also - she cannot be killed but she likes to play at it, cannot be drained no matter how agatha takes, and her love, too, is boundless and bountiful like the green situated between her ribs somewhere.
" i like to hear it, " she drawls. if she were someone else, someone to whom this came more easily, she might take the brush now. she might take up mura's task, helping her hair to go smooth and soft, unselfish and dedicated. instead she leans back at an angle, the column of her neck long in the dim light, and turns her gaze to the ceiling. " hang me for my wretched sentiment. "
she does not say it aloud, but here is the evidence of her reciprocation: not looking, she tightens mura's hand in hers, thumbing runic patterns over its back. she is in a loose nightgown, intricate but slipping from her shoulder, baring her soul.
[ and, perhaps most importantly, she is here, still. ]