we slipped into midnight
like the death of the sun
like the death of the sun
H
is hair, damp and fallen from their braids, sticks to his neck like seaweed. Frowning, Caine flicks a few curling strands away from his eyes, resisting the urge to straighten them. It’s hopeless, anyway — his hair always curled when wet. Not enough to form ringlets, but enough for him to find entirely unappealing; he isn’t a vain creature, not really, but he’d always felt considerable pride in how meticulously he kept his hair. And when he didn’t — Caine’s brow twitches. He fights the urge to fix it. If there is one thing the boy has learned over the years, it is that there is a time for everything.
Right now, that thing is Fia.
Droplets of water carve silver paths down Caine’s pelt as he stands patiently behind the hooded girl, waiting for her to finish… whatever it is she is doing. Her back is to him, but he thinks he sees something small and yellow spread out on the sand in front of her, the dull end of her blade mashing it to powder.
He listens as she tells him about her gold-filled scars (he had made his interest blatantly obvious in hopes of hearing exactly this). When she mentions the Denoctian mage, his ears prick forwards.
“I almost bled out, and I suppose she has a flair for the artistic; she decided to seal up my wounds like this. Denoctians always seem to have quite inventive spirits.”
His thoughts trickle back to the living magic of Queen Isra’s labyrinth, on a night stranger than dreams. Above all be brave, and remember how to dream. His lips curl into a half smile.
“Inventive,” he muses softly, before meeting Fia’s odd, bicolored gaze. He tilts his head, admiring her scars thoughtfully. “Yes. She has made them very beautiful.”
There is no inflection of flattery or mockery in his voice. Only conviction, like he is stating a fact. He doesn’t know why he says it, after, and worst of all, he can’t figure out which expression best suits his statement (a teasing smirk? a sincere nod?). The not-knowing gnaws at him. He settles for a distant smile.
“This is Aspilia.” At last, Fia steps aside to show him her handiwork. Caine looks down at the dandelion-yellow flowers she nods at. She lists the plant’s various medicinal properties without hesitation, like she has known it for years. He supposes she has, but she could not be much older than him, if at all. Solterrans. Are they all like this?
Before he can ask, she turns back to her work, engrossed. No matter. He tucks the question away for later, and makes to step to the side of her so he can observe more closely —
Until a tickle begins at the nape of his neck.
His brow lifts. Had he imagined it?
No — no, he feels it. Feels the ends of his hair lift off his neck and twine back and forth, over and under, on their own accord. For a bewildered moment Caine thinks that he is dreaming, that his exhaustion has claimed him at last — until he remembers that he cannot dream. (In a moment of utter disorientation, he wonders if he is finally being haunted. He has always entertained the thought, but now that it is — possibly — happening, he feels quite sick to the stomach.)
There exists an explanation. There is always an explanation. He remains perfectly still, mouth drawn. Silver eyes search and search, until they narrow on the floating sword grinding the aspilia to bits. On the neat row of braids crowning Fia’s silver neck.
It’s… her. A breath of relief and bafflement escapes his lips. For a moment he is lost for words, silent as his hair is combed and woven by an invisible hand. She is not aware, is she? Astonished, Caine chokes back a genuine laugh.
“It only grows in the Oasis, however. It won’t do you much good elsewhere; it’s always smart to carry supplies when you travel,” she continues. Completely, utterly unaware.
“I thank you, Fia, for your knowledge and your care.” And your braids. The words push and push at Caine’s lips, yet reluctantly he swallows them down. There is a time for everything. His eyes shine bright with the effort of patience.
Will she notice? He plays a game with himself, then, counting the steps it takes for her to reach him. The breaths she breathes when she dabs the paste onto his shoulder. The stripes on her neck when she loops her scarf once and once again over his withers. Has she noticed?
“If you don’t want an open cut to end up infected, it’s best to keep it covered.” Not yet.
“We can bandage it properly later; for the moment, that will do.” His patience breathes its last, dying breath.
“Consider me thoroughly humbled — I have never received such meticulous care before.” He lowers his head, feigning a sweeping bow. The braids slide down and up again on his neck, and he tosses his head with a cheshire grin.
He hopes he has made it obvious.
Before he can see if he has or not (the temptation would be too great then, and he does not trust himself to behave), Caine sweeps past her languidly, stretching his wings to the sky. He yawns, eyes slitting like a cat’s.
He looks back when he is a few strides ahead of her, struck by a sudden question. “There is something I am curious about,” he remarks, glancing down at the scarf that binds his wound, and then back at her.
He had spotted it, when she had slipped her scarf off of her head. The ring of chaffed skin, where a silver band should gleam but doesn’t.
When she catches up, he shortens his stride to match hers. “Why do you not wear your collar?”
@Seraphina | "speaks" | notes: he has asked the Question
