“Sweet water, oh, sweet sweet water you beautiful, unattainable…” Sada squinted. He turned his head to look at the pool with one eye. He bent down to sniff in, then dipped his nose in, throwing his head back when he inhaled and choked on it. “WATER!” He croak-screeched, slurping up the delicious, wondrous, cool, crisp, refreshing, perhaps-not-a-mirage of water! Delicious, delicious water. Even his knife did not ache while he indulged in this beverage. He considered himself dunkable, like a donut. He jumped in and splashed around, wincing every so often with the tightness of his shoulder. He started to feel kind of awful. Being a creature that did not know about donuts or medical practice, he did not know that dehydrated people shouldn’t consume as much water as they possibly could as soon as they could. He collapsed on the hot sand, half-submerged, wailing. ”Cursed be thee, foul water! Thou hast forsaken me, a faithful servant of your master, moon god among men! FUCK you!” He sobbed, though no tears could sprout from his parched eyelids. ”Fuck you, stupid water - ow - fuck you…”
She watches him, and does not think she has ever been so confused in her life.
He looks like a desert horse, like he should belong here: thin, slanting ribs and shoulders; a slim head with large, bloody eyes—but he’s obviously not from this continent, or maybe even this world.
O is used to magic. She is used to strangeness and evil kinds of charm. But this—this is different. This is sickness. His whole body speaks of frailty. His voice is a frog’s croak, somehow both grating and wet. When he flails in the cold water of the Oasis that Apolonia knows so well, she almost winces, as if she is afraid that sickness will leach right out of him and into her home.
It does not seem all that improbable, just looking at him.
Like a cat she slinks down from the dune where she’s watched him, neat hooves disturbing the sand as she descends on long, barely-coordinated legs. Tuchulcha bangs against her hip, singing “careful, careful, careful!”
“I will be,” O whispers back, and she knows it is a lie. Still her lips curl into a clean savage smile, still her body thrills with new excitement as she makes her way to him, predator and prey (though it is hard to tell, now, which is which).
Then she sees the knife.
Almost her step falters, so entranced is she by the shining gold of the grip and the blinking eyes of dark red rubies, the point lodged so deep it’s become invisible—even stranger than that, the smoggy, pure-black virus or mold that spreads out from it in craggy rings. Sick he is, and worse than she would have ever guessed.
But what a lovely blade that is.
With a smile she bounds down to the edge of the water, stops above him with a look of mild concern: “Hello,” O says sweetly, “Do you need help?”
He screams in agony, all drama and flailing and stomach cramps. Sada is almost too preoccupied with himself to notice the girl, even as she slithers down the dune and hisses her honeyed little words. He pauses, mid-writhe, and says, ”Help? It is then that he sits straight up in the water, seemingly healed - miraculously - though within his stomach still pains him. ”I’m just fine, thank you. Do you need help? I think you have too many eyes. I could use one, you know. A third to go right on my arse. That’d be a good a spot as any, for an eye. What do you thi-“ He’s cut off as a wicked cramp sends him doubled over. Too much, too much, too much water you sucked up, idiot, and now here’s your punishment. Big bad cramps and the world’s smallest triclops, special-ordered for your own special mind-prison, just like you deserve. ”This is what I get,” the words struggle out between tight spaces, ”this is what I get for the truth.”
