Despite its workability, its quick acquiescence to his hands, the rope is strong. Woven of the silk of animals that no longer have names, it is unbreakable, and pretty damn difficult to undo if you do not have a precise knowledge of the knots used. The knots themselves are archaic, their secrets thought to have been long lost to time, and it is only through his exceptional intelligence and special reasoning that he is confident that he will be able to undo them.

There is not a great deal of light, but steadily he works, twining and twisting and turning the rope, molding it into a shape of his own will, and the light doesn't really matter to him, and neither does the passage of time, because genius cannot be rushed, and he knows that he is a genius.

Finally, he has finished with his work, and he steps back to survey it, smiling cryptically and seeing so much more than what is physically there, in his four dimensions.

"Wonderful," he says softly, and his voice settles slowly, gracefully over the small, darkened room.

"Yes," snaps the other. "Absolutely freakin' fabulous. Now, when exactly are you planning to untie me?"


A/N: Dusk/Sanguine makes me very happy.

~Mademise Morte, March 23, 2013.