by Will Stanton » Tue Jun 29, 2021 6:48 pm
Will blew out the match he had used to light Miriam, and took a deep breath of the candle's patchouli scent.
The warmth lapped at...well, let's call it Miriam's head for now, as Miriam's mind tried to rearrange it's interpretations of the senses it was receiving. Attempts to move or squirm were met with nothing -- wax doesn't move, after all. Oh, she had a little bit of control; her 'wick' flopping around a bit as she tried her hardest to move, but for the most part, she was stuck solid. It's not at all surprising that her first reaction was to yell at Will mentally.
And then the warmth happened. One would assume at first that being lit on fire would be unpleasant, and there were probably parts of Miriam's mind that were sending off alarm bells; monsters being burnt at the stake and all that. But no. First of all, the warmth filled her...well, I suppose it would be inaccurate to say 'bones', so we'll go with 'core' instead. That in and of itself was a mild blessing in disguise; without a heart to beat and blood to circulate, Miriam was cold basically from the moment she got up until the moment she went to bed. Even taking a hot shower or drinking hot coffee couldn't really warm her; they were band-aids on a broken leg. This heat, though -- it may be focused on the top of her head, but it radiated through her entire body. It wasn't like the heat had been applied to her; it was more that the heat was becoming part of her; an old friend she had last left in a dumpster behind a casino.
But the physical heat was only part of what was going on. There was a feeling of...well, satisfaction? Contentment? Neither word quite fit the situation. But for someone who spent most of their life wading through astral garbage, there was a feeling of things finally being right in some way. Obviously, this feeling of accomplishment seemed a bit...unearned. All that had happened was she had been lit on fire; any idiot could light themselves on fire, and usually they're referred to psychiatric counseling, not given a lifetime achievement award. But for Miriam, it was somewhat akin to the feeling she got when she delivered a particularly withering putdown, or when the pieces of mental bric-a-brac she had been moving around clunked together in just the right way. And the feeling only increased as the flame continued to lap at her; those physical sensations amplifying and reflecting what she was already feeling. Will leaning in and taking a deep whiff sent a shock of whatever that feeling was right back up her...we'll call it a spine. If there was a place in the universe for her, she had found it.
She knew, of course, that this was bollocks. She was Miriam Bell, not some Yankee Candle bullshit. Will might be comfortable spending the rest of his days on a shelf, but Miriam was still a person, even as the flame burnt. But it was easier to see now why Will leaned into it so much. Chicken and the egg -- had Will become accustomed to or dependent on the feelings he gained when he was shifted and used? Or had that always been part of him, and shaped the way his mutation had sparked? The expression on his face was hard to read, as he watched the flickering flame.
The flickering flame. It had started as external to Miriam, being brought into existence when Will had lit the match. And yet, she could now feel it as part of her. A part she could control -- just a little bit for now, and only with rather significant effort. She couldn't put it out, but the aspects of it, it's size and intensity? Maybe she could so something with that. And as her wax softened and melted, she found she had a little bit of control over that, as well -- not to the level Will would have; Will could shoot an arm out of his side made of wax and do the funky chicken if he wanted to. But the pool of liquid wax on top of her; the beads of wax that ran down her sides -- as long as they were altered by the fire, she could at least somewhat control the patterns they made as they slid down her body, a stark contrast to the unmoving and rigid rest of herself, the part that the flame hadn't touched, yet.
"Patchouli," Will noted. "Dark, musky, earthy. Like wet soil, almost. It makes sense, though I probably would have dismissed it as being a bit hippyish for you. I guess it shows that you're different than Meplomene for sure; I don't think she would have defaulted to something quite so...connected to things."
He mused a little, taking in the aroma slowly filling the room. "Mostly base notes, but then, patchouli has an underlying secret sweetness to it -- one that is sometimes hidden by the spicy overnotes. Yeah, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised in the least."