[AW] little pilgrim;

[Apolonia]

TIL THE PROPHET'S ARISEN -

She cannot - or chooses not to - disguise her almost-childish satisfaction at seeing Caine flinch. It almost makes her smile. He startles, his silver eyes widen; she smashes the illusion the bits just as it threatens his heart (if he has one) and watches the thing clatter to the table. Her gaze turns slowly to his. She is bizarrely pleased to find him watching her: for all her secrecy O is desperate to be known. To be recognized. Not to be just someone’s daughter - 

And so when he says that, just like your father, something like indignance blazes furiously in her mismatched eyes instantly. Almost she wants to open her mouth to respond (she can feel a scathing quip filling the back of her mouth like saltwater) but does not quite have time to shape the words before Caine lights himself on fire.

What use are words, then?

His steel eyes turn to bright, molten lava. The impressions that dent his forehead burn with light, as if they are being illuminated by something deep inside his skull, pouring out; she watches the flames dance over his cheekbones, and just as quickly as it came, just as quickly as O sheather her own powers, his magic disappears. He lets out a heavy sigh, and for a moment O is not immune to wondering why he seems so unhappy about it.

But she is like her father, and like him: she knows that power can hurt. She knows how it drains you from the very core. Even now she feels a little woozy, though that might be the narcotic glare of the sun.

O grins. It is surprisingly, honestly real, and it changes her face into something unironically young and sweet. Just like my father, she repeats, equal parts maudlin and amused. Her smile twists into a wry, lopsided smirk. She and him are overlapping circles, at least in sorcery, and that she can respect. It is not fear but understanding that has overcome her. (If there is some part of her that hurts at hearing about her father when his body has not yet faded to bones, when her mother is still drowning in her own tears - well, no one would ever know.)

She is not surprised to hear the hiss of the salesman. Some part of her wonders what kind of business he is running that he did not evict them sooner. She cuts her gaze at him sideways with a look of dry bemusement, but does not argue - instead she nods at Elif and twists her head back to the alley behind them, where more stalls await to be looked at. Either she does not notice the older girl’s discontent or does not care to address it; her only response is to bump her shoulder against Elif’s affectionately, but still her gaze remains on Caine.

Don’t ever talk about my father again, she says, and despite her usual seriousness, the words are followed by a laugh. She flashes him a wry little phantom-smile, and even he could not think she was really offended by it.

Though it does not make the warning any less dangerous.