little pilgrim
the Indian's axed your scalp.
the Indian's axed your scalp.
Elif doesn’t laugh when he repeats the words so slowly, though she wants to; she wants also to tell him that she’s not at all stupid, just surprised. “Thank you,” is all she says instead, and it only sounds a little like she’s not certain that it’s the proper response. Summer eyes - he is clearly not from the desert, and she feels a little bit better knowing that.
When he talks of god and knowing, the first thing that rises up to her tongue is disagreement (like always), but for once Elif hesitates. She considers the man, and then she turns her head and considers the pool, and tries to remember how the golden water had slid down her throat. She doesn’t know what ichor should taste like, or holy water, or anything. But she has met god, in a way (not that he ever took note of her,) and it doesn’t seem like an improbability, suddenly.
“You’re right,” she announces, and when she considers him again it is less like a cat and more like a girl. “I bet Solis left it. Maybe it will bless us -” but Elif has no idea what that would feel like, and anyway none of the gods (save maybe Oriens) seemed like the blessing type, and so she lets the question of it go just like he had, the second half of her sentence drifting away like sparks.
Now that she has agreed once, she finds it is easier to do it again, and harder to do the opposite; so when he speaks of the heat instead of saying what heat she nods and sidles a little closer and casts another (wise, she hopes) glance over the pool and the birds and the way it shimmers a little, like a mirage. “It’s a wet heat,” she says, which to her makes it infinitely more unbearable than the dry desert heat, which weeds out the weak and doesn’t suffocate your lungs and makes flying easier than anything.
She finds no differences in herself - red dapples on her shoulders and hips, red belly, dark legs and back and tail, every feather well in place, and she is both a little relieved and a little disappointed when his question makes her look up to find him staring. For a wild second she thinks that something has changed from the water, and then she remembers her band of wool, as much a part of her as her flight feathers or her summer eyes.
“It’s my alaja,” she says, and could never disguise the pride in her voice. Elif tilts her chin for him, showing the collar off, the patterns woven into the scarlet strip. “Its color and design means I am from the Erdogan family, and it’s sewn with prayers and omens for protection and bravery.”
How to tell him more? - that it makes her feel like an eagle to wear, that it makes her feel ancient and wise and loved, like all her ancestors are watching her. Never mind that her own parents have fled, that her brother is dead (is he watching her, too?) - she has never felt silly for that little band of wool, never felt childish for her superstitions. “I never take it off,” Elif tells him, but she isn’t sure if that answers his question or not.
Now it is her turn to take a few steps closer, and her gaze searches him again, curious, touching briefly on his tail-feathers. She nods, approving of them, and all at once folds her wings up and meets his eyes again. She decides she likes the way they crinkle.
“Are you going to stay? Or - ” and Elif tilts her gaze to the sky, where the heat is not so humid and where the wind leaps and laughs and where her golden blood is urging her up and up.
@Mateo this had no business being as long as it is
