She needs him. She calls to him, in not so many words. 

He rises, like the first gentle rays of dawn. Hush now, everyone. Hush, or you will miss it. There are only a few steps between him and his place. Listen, and you will hear a song no lark of the morning could match. 

[i]-jingle jingle jingle-[/i]

And stop. And sink. To his knees, before her throne.

One of her hands rests level with his eyes. (She did not need both to deliver her [i]instruction[/i] to Taurus.) It is a terrible crime, touching something so precious without asking. So his hands hover a whisper above hers. So he meets her thoughtful gaze with a plea in his eyes. So he waits, for a wan smile to warm, for the faintest hint of a purr, for the inclining of her head.

Then, at last, he touches her.

Do you feel the work that has gone into him, Mistress? Have the oils and brushing and care polished him to your liking? Is he as soft as he looks, as temptingly soft he has looked all this long, long day? Feel no need to rush in your judgement. You have time. He will take his time, stroking, massaging, caressing each finger. Answer, if it pleases you, and you will give him [i]such[/i] a gift. 

“I thought of you always, when I was lost.” Even his voice is soft. It is for you, and you alone. “A bit behind me, and to the left. Or the right, when there wasn’t room. Whenever I was lost. Whenever I felt out of my depth. Whenever I had to say something difficult to survive. I thought of you. I could hear you, and I did my best to imagine what you would say, if you could see me.”

He coaxes her hand open. Runs his thumbs along her palm. Clings, for dear life.

“I listened to you. I hoped dearly I had imagined you properly, every time, but you got me through it. I survived. I don’t know if I would have if you hadn’t been there.” Even the hitch in his throat is soft. She won’t mistake it for a sigh. “Softness can’t fix everything. I knew that, but, I [i]know[/i] that, now. There are times when being soft cannot stop a tragedy. There are times when, if I want something to happen, I have to take a harder stance. A sharper stance. And every time, I have to ask myself: Is this really one of those times? Or have I just not tried hard enough to find a better way? Even when I decide it might be a time to be sharp, always, I worry if I am betraying myself. If I put my foot down here, in this way, am I giving up? Have I decided, at last, that what I thought was important was just. Silly? Not realistic? Impractical and unimportant, when it really matters…?”

He laughs. Delicate as a bell. Tight as a collar.

“Didn’t you say it already, Mistress? Intoxicating thoughts. Thinking myself a little bigger, forgetting my place. If they test your might, what hope have I?” 

“I needed you. I needed your voice. If I was only soft, I would not have made it home. But if I were too sharp, I would have betrayed myself. Not my softness. But the kindness and love that I have kept safe thus far.”

One hand lies across her palm.

“Your sharpness saved my life. And so I offer it again to you.”

One hand cradles a finger.

“I am yours, Mistress, if you will have me.”

Slowly, he bows.

“All my strength.”

Slowly, against a racing heart.

“All my softness.”

Slowly, lashes flutter.

“All my love, all my faith…”

Slowly, lips press against her claw.

And linger.

“...in your sharpness.”

His tongue gives the tiniest lick. For good measure.

“If you will have me…”

He does not rise. The claw hangs by his mouth. A chin could be tilted. A neck could be traced. Lips could be teased. And he does not rise.

“...I am yours.”