“It no longer matters,” Caligo tells Katniss, with a look that suggests she’s only half-there, and half with the thunderbirds still. “They’re gone now, flying away for good.”
There’s a finality to her tone, as if she knows with a certainty that the creatures are gone from good. But the demi-goddess gives no hint as to why she knows, simply turning away from the lake and, subsequently, away from the thunderbirds.
Turning to meet Calliope’s violence and anger and pain.
For a moment Caligo is silent, listening to the unicorns speak, so very different from one another. She listens to the wind and the sea, always comparing, always relating the living to the nonliving.
“Some gods don’t mind betting your lives in their games, for they have nothing to lose from it.” She meets Calliope’s gaze, a spark in her eyes, fed by the flame the other mare so freely provides. And there’s a dare unspoken within them: am I one of those gods? Or am I more like one of you?
Caligo is only half-immortal, after all; maybe, just maybe, if they were to cut her with their horns, she would bleed the same red blood they did.
But Caligo doesn’t give her the chance. She walks past the unicorns, both the calm and the furious, and for a moment it seems that’s all the answer she will give them. Until she turns back, her dark eyes suddenly full or moonlight and star dust.
“One day, I will tell you both a story of my own.”
Then the demigoddess disappears, dissipating into the wind.
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