I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black
The spar is over.
Caine listens to the blood rushing in his ears and tests his weight on his hind leg. It is just a bit tender, apt to heal by the next evening, and not deserving of a limp. The prognosis satisfies him. Rain drums lightly against his spine, and for the first time that night, Caine is glad for it.
His heart beats a staccato rhythm in his chest, though it takes only a few breaths to steady it again. The spar had been almost — pleasant. Quietly, Caine thinks how strange it is to find himself at the end of a fight, unscathed. With nothing but his thoughts to fill his mind, instead of the high whine, like a sparrow’s trill, that his magic liked to bestow as a parting gift.
He feels the rise and fall of Fia’s ribs against his as she gathers her breath, and smiles when he hears the quip curl crossly into her voice.
“Should I count that as a mark?”
“No. I wouldn't dare.” As he speaks, he straightens his neck out from the severe angle he had wrenched it in and, without drawing away, rests the crook of it over the top of her damp mane.
She doesn’t move, and neither does he. Fatigue locks them both safely away in worlds of their own, and the seconds pass like seasons.
Vaguely, almost languidly, Caine looks up when the rain stops dripping from the leaky sky. He waits as Fia stills, ruminating over his admission.
“Even if that’s so, I still don’t see why I should try to give you any more.”
He is quiet, for a moment. Why she insists on sparing him from wounds intrigues him as much as it puzzles him. Unable to come up with an answer, Caine draws away (he hadn’t rested against her for more than a few seconds, though it had felt longer than that) and tightens his smile.
“You are very noble.” The solemnity of his voice surprises him. Unadorned, it sounds hollow, like the ringing of cutlery against an empty chalice. More than that; it sounds — wrong. Like a forest that lacks birdsong, or a baby that refuses to cry.
Absently he runs his gaze over her expanse of rain-darkened silver, searching for blooms of crimson. “When I was…given these scars, I almost bled out. It was the first time I felt that I… I cared whether I lived or died.”
To linger on the doors of death. To see your blood anoint the earth. A question forms in Caine’s mind: do you think death is kind? but does not make it to his lips. He does not need to ask. He has seen the answer refracted in dreams and pleading eyes enough times.
He lashes his dripping tail against his legs thoughtfully.
“Whenever you’d like, I’ll set his eyes aflame again. As many times as it takes for you to immortalize it — so that the next time you see him, you can tell him what beautiful eyes he has.”
Flames flicker cheerfully across Caine's eyes. He dowses them before they can catch.
“We shouldn’t linger.” Nodding, he picks out the familiar moonlight silver of his dagger in the spot he'd placed it, blade down in the sand. When they reach it, he dusts it off and slides it back into its sheath along his wing joint.
The weight of it eases him. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed it.
Caine listens to the blood rushing in his ears and tests his weight on his hind leg. It is just a bit tender, apt to heal by the next evening, and not deserving of a limp. The prognosis satisfies him. Rain drums lightly against his spine, and for the first time that night, Caine is glad for it.
His heart beats a staccato rhythm in his chest, though it takes only a few breaths to steady it again. The spar had been almost — pleasant. Quietly, Caine thinks how strange it is to find himself at the end of a fight, unscathed. With nothing but his thoughts to fill his mind, instead of the high whine, like a sparrow’s trill, that his magic liked to bestow as a parting gift.
He feels the rise and fall of Fia’s ribs against his as she gathers her breath, and smiles when he hears the quip curl crossly into her voice.
“Should I count that as a mark?”
“No. I wouldn't dare.” As he speaks, he straightens his neck out from the severe angle he had wrenched it in and, without drawing away, rests the crook of it over the top of her damp mane.
She doesn’t move, and neither does he. Fatigue locks them both safely away in worlds of their own, and the seconds pass like seasons.
Vaguely, almost languidly, Caine looks up when the rain stops dripping from the leaky sky. He waits as Fia stills, ruminating over his admission.
“Even if that’s so, I still don’t see why I should try to give you any more.”
He is quiet, for a moment. Why she insists on sparing him from wounds intrigues him as much as it puzzles him. Unable to come up with an answer, Caine draws away (he hadn’t rested against her for more than a few seconds, though it had felt longer than that) and tightens his smile.
“You are very noble.” The solemnity of his voice surprises him. Unadorned, it sounds hollow, like the ringing of cutlery against an empty chalice. More than that; it sounds — wrong. Like a forest that lacks birdsong, or a baby that refuses to cry.
Absently he runs his gaze over her expanse of rain-darkened silver, searching for blooms of crimson. “When I was…given these scars, I almost bled out. It was the first time I felt that I… I cared whether I lived or died.”
To linger on the doors of death. To see your blood anoint the earth. A question forms in Caine’s mind: do you think death is kind? but does not make it to his lips. He does not need to ask. He has seen the answer refracted in dreams and pleading eyes enough times.
He lashes his dripping tail against his legs thoughtfully.
“Whenever you’d like, I’ll set his eyes aflame again. As many times as it takes for you to immortalize it — so that the next time you see him, you can tell him what beautiful eyes he has.”
Flames flicker cheerfully across Caine's eyes. He dowses them before they can catch.
“We shouldn’t linger.” Nodding, he picks out the familiar moonlight silver of his dagger in the spot he'd placed it, blade down in the sand. When they reach it, he dusts it off and slides it back into its sheath along his wing joint.
The weight of it eases him. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed it.
@Seraphina | "speaks" | notes: WE FINISHED ♡ thank you for a spectacular battle thread!!
