lysander
Lysander watches her break from the trees and cross the stream with the single-minded intent of a predator, and thinks that he should not be surprised.
But he is, just a little, and pleased as well – though he does not show it, except for a secret in his eyes. Oh, she does not belong in this world; she reminds him of Artemis, of Athena. She reminds him of the summer storms that would sometimes roll in over the sea, lightning flashing like teeth.
The once-god has never met the lion-hearted unicorn, but he remembers her nonetheless. She is (it only wounds him a little to think it) more of a legend than he, no matter his lives, no matter his deeds.
“I don’t know whether to be frightened or flattered,” he says in return, and the grin that creases his cheek never makes it to his eyes. They are consumed instead by a curiosity that verges on hunger. Ah, she is a ravenous thing; even standing there in a setting fit for any unicorn she cannot hide the lion that waits, starving, in her bones. She is as distant from the domesticated, jewelry-draped citizens of this place as he is. More so, perhaps, and Lysander is not ashamed to admit it.
He watches the water shed from her skin like rain, like tears. Once he had met a unicorn from whom poinsettias sprang, bright and new, from each cloven print; what might spring from hers?
Lysander says nothing as she touches her muzzle to antler, splintered and pale as a broken bone, as though she is knighting him or blessing him. He watches her through dark lashes like he’s watching through a thicket, and a smile blooms on his mouth at the sound the weapons they wear make together.
“They will fall away in winter,” he says, leaning away when she is finished with her examination, and begins to pick his way along the stream, all nonchalance. “And be reborn in spring, whole once more.” It is not an answer to the question she has asked and he knows it.
From over his shoulder he watches her, the darkness of her swallowing up the little light that filters through the canopy. Almost, almost, he asks why she left Velius. (He wonders, had she stayed, if she would have hunted him for a very different reason).
Instead, he flicks his tail and says, mildly, “Do you know the difference between a man and a monster, Calliope?” When he licks his lips, he remembers the taste of copper and iron. When he breathes, he remembers anticipating the last of those breaths. “Both of them are beasts. But they cannot be punished the same way.”
