That morning Vercingtorix wakes in a stranger’s bed and leaves before the stallion awakes. Perhaps it is merely coincidence the stranger is such a bright chestnut he looks like copper; perhaps it is mere coincidence his eyes are red, and he is one of Denocte's soldiers. It is coincidence. Nothing else, Vercingtorix tells himself as he enters the cool morning streets, before the sun has risen to warm the cobblestone. 

As he leaves, there is a thought that follows him. It is merciless; the equivalent of small birds frustrating an eagle. It picks at his hypothetical feathers; it pulls at his tail.

Coward, it breathes. You are a coward. 

Unsurprisingly, it is his father’s voice, and it has followed him all the way across the sea. He would drink it away, perhaps, but he is not a drinker. He would fight it away, perhaps, but he cannot find anything to fight. Anything worth killing. There is a part him, small and satirical, that laughs at his struggles. Isn’t is so difficult, to live in a world where something is not trying to kill you? To walk on a land not inhabited by flesh-eating shapeshifters? To be cast out from your father’s shadow, and forced to become your own man 

Isn’t it ironic, he wants nothing except to wake up and have the security of his old purpose? Vercingtorix wonders if it is sick, but his contemplations are cast aside when he very nearly collides with one of the Denocte citizens. The stallion snorts at him, “watch it,” but continues on his travels.

Vercingtorix decides, after a moment, to abandon the streets. He trails down to the infamous markets and, from there, attempts to see Locust’s ship. He cannot distinguish it among the throng of strange vessels, and abandons the effort. It does not matter, either way. There is too much keeping him in Novus for him to seek her passage elsewhere and with that he cannot help but think of copper skin and the way someone once, on an island with black cliffs and monsters, said I love you. 

He purchases black tea and simple bread from one of the vendors, before stepping inside their establishment. But Vercingtorix is not so quick as to not notice the slender, palomino stallion behind him, browsing the wares. He stoops his mouth low toward the vendors ear and slides more coins onto the tabletop that separates them. “I’ll also purchase whatever that gentleman would like. You can keep the tip.” Vercingtorix seats himself by a burning fireplace and glances out the window, where it overlooks the sea. 

He waits. 

And waits. 

And when he hears the sound of an approach, Vercingtorix offers his most charming smile. 

I have always liked sharp things.

Things you could cut yourself on.

Others preferred the tridents and hooks so particular to our kind of warfare; I had loved the blades, the two-sided fishing spears.

I have always loved the boys, with their hard edges. The rest of my companions had sought the luscious curves our of our country’s women; but not me. Things you could cut yourself on. He is sylphlike; he is angles and slim and a little like a shard of sun-bright glass. His colours ought make him soft; they ought fool me into complacent friendliness. 

But when he comes to my table as if expecting the gesture, when he smiles as brilliantly and dangerously as me, I am utterly charmed. I am utterly enticed.

“Hm. Kind for some.” I do not say it threateningly. He has a nice face, although the markings he bares unnerve me just so. I have seen too many Khashran bearing the scars of my people to believe it entirely innocent; how many suns had I painted upon the brows of my enemies, to know that Cain’s mark comes in many forms? “Are you from Denocte?” I ask, and it is nearly conversational. I take a drink of the tea.

I try to keep my eyes from devouring him.

I try to convince myself I shouldn’t.

I try not to think of a red and black horse on a blacker beach, running a hairsbreadth in front of me, laughing into the wind.

I have always liked sharp things.

Even the pain of memories.

@Elchanan