someday i am going
to walk out of here free
to walk out of here free
Y
es, he says, and Angharad - even Angharad, only weeks old at this point - knows that he is asking for an explanation. It is one he will not come even close to getting?What is there to explain? Too much, and all of it far too complex. An explanation: I am made of more bones than anyone else. A confession: I came not from blood but from dirt. A little song, soft and sweet and black: You will never know me as more than a quest, because I am only alive as long as there is something to be done.
But he does not care, why would he care? and so she says nothing, only smiles at him, a bright, sharp smirk that turns the blue of her eyes just a little darker. They seem to glow against the dark that drips from her brow to the slice of her mouth. Wind rattles the threads of gold twirling against those huge umber horns. And in her chest, though no one (including her) could ever see it, something loud and excited with sharp pearl teeth rears and begs to be fed a new friend.
She cannot know, yet, that this is the curse of all Briars: to hunger no matter what.
The only thing stronger than that hunger (though for her it is nothing more a child’s desire, lusting only for love) is Una’s voice scolding her from the back of her head. She tenses at the sound of it reverberating through her skull. Her muscles coil, her gaze narrows, she watches Abel with a cool, stolid wariness, and then she turns mildly away and takes a step down the ledge.
Wish me luck, she sings over her shoulder, giddy as it is naive, and starts to traverse the slopes closer to the court.
Let him follow. Or not. She will leave either way.
@abel | "speaks" | notes: text
