Comfort

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, there's the guilt and shame that swirl over Rhiannon's thoughts like oncoming storm clouds eager to unleash their torrent and fury over the roiling ocean below.

That doesn't matter though. It's a simple gesture to throw up the barricade and leave her sulking in silence. Vaguely, she catches glimpses of the flight from the Kindly Ones and there's a roar in the distance as her own failing rise up to engulf her.

It grows to be too much almost, but there's a gentle sigh right beside her ear and the moonlight streams in from the large windows, washing her in the silvery moonbeams until the wave of her emotions ebbs out into that infinite ocean. Soon the water is glass as everything is right for this one moment of existence.

"I hear you thinking and it is far too loud." There's a siblant whisper at her ear, the voice  shivering down her spine. Anann's grasp, even in the drowsy, half-awake state is a steel vice. Rhiannon doesn't answer her beyond a subtle shift within that unrelenting embrace, hoping vainly that Anann will leave it at that. The goddess doesn't, of course. She had to meddle lest it drive her mad and so, after Rhiannon has counted out nine steady heartbeats that rumble like thunder under her cheek; she's tucked and rolled until she's pressed deep into the blankets, a dark shadow falling over her. She tilts her gaze up to meet the midnight black stare of the Morrigan.

"I'm not thinking," she says softly, the tingle of the lie prickling at the base of her neck. She knows Anann can sense the falsehood, for the goddess' perfect cupid's bow mouth curves down into a frown that doesn't break the face that Anann is beauty personified. A thigh glides between her own legs as Anann resettles herself and Rhiannon knows that she'll be awake for a while longer. It's not sexual, not yet-- but it's a sensual closeness as the Matron consoles in the ways that mean most to her.

"All right, so I am thinking."  Rhiannon crooks her knee so that her calf rubs along Anann's own.   Compared to the goddess' ivory skin, Rhiannon's is deathly pale, the anemia turning her already luminous skin near transparent and wane. "Rhiannon's memories of the last few days have filtered in. She finally fell asleep."

There's a poignant silence from Anann as Rhiannon speaks aloud the troubles that plague her mind. She talks about Hammerfest first, and Anann's fingers tickle over her shoulder and trace the line of her collarbone.  When Rhiannon begins to mention the ritual, Anann's tactics change; and Rhiannon's voice catches over a word. Her eyes flutter close and then open again, meeting Anann's gaze questioningly.

"Continue." The goddess commands with a voice as smooth as silk, her expression unreadable as her fingers flex and curl over Rhiannon's body.

Rhiannon's words are a stumble until the rythym's established and she can indulge in a sigh or two without breaking the flow of her thoughts. The conversation dips between bouts of noise and silence, as the crush of their lips together has Rhiannon whispering over the connection of the ring until she's allowed a breath. When Anann's attentions are over her throat, she resumes speaking vocally, the cadence and pitch of her words thrown off by the smile that can't leave her lips now.

By the time Rhiannon's detailing the futile frustration as she's plucked off the battlefield of her unwilling choosing, the words are broken apart by tiny little moans. She gives up the pretense not long afterward and falls into the pleasure that Anann coaxes from her. Like a bird, her spirit soars high and eternity passes by her until reality is gently returned to her. Anann's abyssal gaze glitters with pride as she rolls them until Rhiannon's nestled on her. Nothing's said as they fall into a companionable silence, Anann's touch now soothing and meant to lull Rhiannon back to sleep's cloying embrace, the Vanir fortress nothing more than another footnote in the demigoddess' past.