Atanasius' question, which might have sparked off a flare of recriminative anger before the gift of wine and more, only prompted her to finally wander away from him, knees leading each step, the tops of her bare toes dragging long against the floor with her slow strides. Her fingers trailed out of his grasp and fell to her side, forgotten.<br/><br/>Slowly she spun in a circle, swaying ever so faintly; something more than the wine was beginning to thrum in her veins as her eyes slid across the scenes of sexual debauchery that were on the peeling gesso; without warning, she took a deep inhalation and a step, going to one knee upon a grate.<br/><br/>"There is flame," she murmured, the words nearly sing-song, "and it warms and swaddles; it does not burn." Her fingers curled into the metal of the grate, tightening, and then drew away to slide up her thigh, slowing toward her still-sensitive sex, and she inhales deeply again. A smile flits across her face as her head tilts up, seeming to scent the air, and to like what it is she smelled.<br/><br/>"We are blanketed in here; it thrums in us like the heartbeat of our mother. We are..." her hand slid slowly up her body, and she stood, hand coming to a halt upon her cheek, just below the pale lashes that now lay closed upon her cheekbones. "...safe..." she whispered, swaying a little again, and then letting out a soft laugh. "Safe here, maybe then, maybe once. Maybe now."<br/><br/>One eye slid open, landing curiously on Anastasius; it was not cold, nor did she seem to be seeking any response or approval. She simply looked at him.