someday i am going
to walk out of here free
to walk out of here free
S
he does not think she has ever seen a horn like this girl’s. Then again she hasn’t seen much. But Angharad’s eyes catch on the death-sharp point and the hollow, mathematically perfect curl, and the way it grows smoothly into her forehead like a tree’s roots grow into dirt, and a mixture of awe and apprehension mingles in the girl’s chest. She wonders if that horn has ever killed anyone. She wonders if it would like to.But her gaze falls to the ash-and-rot at the stranger’s feet, and she is not so sure that horn is the only way to go, though she is sure it is the most humane. Angharad remembers what it’s like to be rot. She stills feels it in her bones sometimes, a dull fungal ache. She knows what it is to be choked by darkness, and warmth, and wet, and to look out from between slatted ribs but not see anything beyond them. And, okay - maybe for the grass it’s not so bad - but still a frown, sparkling with something like pity, tugs at her mouth.
Angharad watches. She watches everything. It is her only power, twice as useful and half as strong as her fist-hold on death. Curled horns spiraling forward, head tilted down, she watches and watches, the blue of her eyes a song, a pleading, a great relief and a small admission of defeat. And if those eyes ever waver, well, then it is hard to see in the soft golden glow of the dusk.
She can taste the warmth of the air in her mouth - like smoke, like fire. It pulses lively against the skin of her jaw. Her blood rocks against the inside of her skull but she does not waver: her feet are planted firmly in the dying dirt and her jaw is raised high against the wind and she half-smiles when Thana meets her eyes, slow and hesitant and strange though it is though it is.
Angharad takes a deep breath, and it curls like a song in her chest, tattooing notes of flute and silver against her ribs. She wants to introduce herself but the words are stuck too tight in her throat. Who are you? she says instead, choking it out like a half-assed prayer -
Wind slashes into her hair and she leans back against the breeze, and for a second she wishes she had something better to say - but she is a child, still, and it does not come to her.
@thana | "speaks" | notes: text
