Lysander has never thought himself in possession of a soul. No god is: they are all unending, they need no unseen piece of them to be enduring. Perhaps in a way they are all soul, and too much power — but he thinks instead that all the essence of things like him (like what he used to be) is on the outside, and within is as hollow as a doll.
That is why they can never change. Not in the way of mortals, and not in the way of Isra.
She is changing again when she smiles like a scythe. He wonders how many would fall before that blade like wheat, how much she could gather. It is almost impossible to think she is the same unicorn that would not meet his eye, surrounded by children with a tale on her tongue. Only when his eyes trace her scales and the chain rusted there does he remember that this is not the first time she’s been reborn.
Or perhaps this is who she was meant to be in the beginning.
You’re wrong she says and when Lysander glances up he thinks he is. But not because of her magic - because the way her smile falls makes him wonder if she hasn’t changed as much as he believed. His own smile does not fade away; it curls black and thin on his dark muzzle. “Nothing I’ve seen in this world is what I’d consider terrible.” He thinks, with a twist of an ear, of the riftlands with their starving, sick magic. Of lands being unmade like a crone pulling apart a ball of wool, so slowly you could feel it. These monsters were tame in comparison.
And then, as though tugging from his thoughts, Isra remakes the wall behind her.
The antlered man steps by to watch it happen, and his sharp green gaze devours it like bread, like wine. Oh, but it is nothing like the feral, chaotic magic of the rift; there is still order in it, and sense, and beauty. They are both staring at it, swallowing it down, one bitter and one sweet. Only at her second question do his eyes move to her, until they drop to the sword that tumbles to her feet. He waits for her to pick it up; when she does not he steps nearer, until his shadow joins hers, until he could touch the chain still wound with seaweed like a crown.
“And you’re wrong to think it will take a hundred deaths.” Lysander bends to consider the weapon, taking care not to touch her with his antlers; but for a moment his mouth hovers near her scales, long enough that the warm breath he sighs fogs them like a spell. The sword is sapphire, as blue as the unnatural brush along her belly, gleaming like a god’s-pool. It looks like a thing that might drink and drink. He comes near enough to fog it, too, with his breathing. At last he touches it, and is surprised to find it cold.
And then he lifts his head to her, and catches her gaze like he might once have snared a doe, when he was a young and wild thing and everything a game of pursuit. “I think both of us have what weapons we need, Isra.” His heartbeat is an easy thing beneath the silver dagger.
you fester in the daytime hours
boy, you never sleep at night
@Isra
