is it better to out-monster the monster
or to be quietly devoured?
or to be quietly devoured?
“C
aine.”It is always a bit of a novelty for him to hear his name fall from the lips of another. Though he offers it freely, it is rarely uttered back to him – he does have an abundance of aliases – yet every time it is, a curl of something like satisfaction flickers to life in the boy’s chest. Caine – he savors the way she says it, in that rolling Solterran accent.
The way she gives life to it, in a way he never can.
He watches, only half interested, as Elif whispers something in Apolonia’s golden ear. Flick out a wing to settle the snarling girl back. (But her ax is still there, still spinning and whining, and Caine glances witheringly at it once again before side-stepping its hungry blade completely.)
“It’s O,” Acton’s daughter spits, and Caine wants to retort with a satin-smooth “I know it is.” (Even though he doesn’t know why she insists on shortening her – quite lovely, and more importantly, lovingly given – name to a single letter.) But then he considers her blade and his lack of appetite for shortening already short tempers, and settles for an obliging “O,” instead.
And then he turns to the weapons, because they lack the lips to scowl.
On a whim he offers the stiletto blade to Elif, wondering if she’ll take it. He has always pitied the stiletto – frequently underestimated as it is. The blade’s modest, sleek beauty is lost on those without the knowledge – or the need – to appreciate it.
Even when he knows with just a cursory glance that neither of the girls have ever come close to pressing blades against whimpering throats.
When she does take it – hesitantly, like he is offering her a sewing needle – Caine watches Elif’s reaction with raven-like curiosity. In the right hands, it is deadly.
“It looks like a letter opener.”
The boy resists the urge to laugh – one day you will learn that even a letter opener is long enough to pierce a heart, he wants to say – though he is pleased when she still tests it anyways, lunging forwards with it to sink the sharp little stiletto into the neck of the shop owner.
Which she doesn’t do, of course.
“I’m not so good in close quarters,” she admits with an indignant shake of her head, tossing the blade back towards him. “Maybe something with a little more reach.”
“Perhaps.” He reaches for the blade without looking, and that is his second mistake.
His first mistake is in forgetting about the girl with the hurlbat and Acton’s magic running like fuel through her veins.
The blade never reaches Caine’s awaiting grasp, and when he finally glances up to figure out why, he is greeted with the blinding silver of a flying sword.
Its formless edge pierces centimeters shy of his heart, but his startled silver eyes never stray from the shining blue and yellow glare (a bit like Fia’s, he thinks, though the silver mare’s had been more true to either shade) of O.
Silence holds between them for one slow blink, the reverted stiletto clattering ungracefully to the wooden table.
“You are also an illusionist,” is all he says to her, neither affronted nor particularly affected, before he shuts his silver eyes –
And opens them, flaming.
“Just like your father.” And just like me. His scars burn like an inferno in his forehead, furious at being invoked, and with a resigned sigh Caine lets his magic fade again into the roiling blackness it calls home.
But he is not like them. Because while both of their magics come when called, demanding nothing but the chance to be freed –
His magic demands nightmares, and pain, and blood.
So if O thinks she is alone in her devouring, burning jealousy, oh – how wrong she is.
@Elif @Apolonia | "speaks" | notes: -shaking eyes emoji-
