someday i am going
to walk out of here free
to walk out of here free
F
rom her spot just above him (as slightly above as she is) she can see just how scrawny he is, he slats of his ribs shining through like a web of moonlight, his narrow shoulders hulking, his emaciated cheeks catching the light. Ah! She pities him. Is it pity or sympathy? Does it matter? All at once she is thankful for the way Una built her, brick from brick: no matter what, at her bones Angharad is still strong and tough and hard to kill.
That knowledge is more comforting than anything else she can think of.
His voice only barely reaches her, never mind the dead silence of the canyon around them. Hi, she calls back, and grins momentarily, flashing a smile so bright it sparkles like the sunlight above them. Angharad shakes her head as if clearing off an eon of dust. A cloud of multi-colored silk hair goes swirling around her neck like a river, the slick of gold wrapped around her horn goes clattering and tinkling against the keratin; she leans over the edge of the tiny ridge to watch him more closely, eyes wide with sinless curiosity.
Where are you heading? asks the boy, and Angharad pauses briefly in her watchfulness. She blinks against the sun and against the weight of his stare, and, little girl that she is, cannot think to say anything but the truth: I’m not sure, comes the answer, more doleful than it is truly embarrassed, and her lip twists in a sheepish frown. Her brow furrows slightly. I’m looking for someone, she says at last. Somewhere.
Una’s voice rings in her head, as sharp as teeth scraping rock. Whoosh goes the breeze over the canyon’s loose sand.
Where are you going? Angharad shuffles a tiny step forward, down the slope. Her gaze narrows.
Even the desert could not hurt a boy this much.
@abel | "speaks" | notes: text
