 First there had been Pretty Boy, and now there was Lover Boy, and Charlemagne wondered what she would call him next. It was the first that hurt the most, like a barb caught in his skin - he’d been called that one before, usually after being caught out trying to sneak away before sparring practice. Surely it did not apply here, with his coat salty with sweat and seawater and his hair a feral tangle, more snarled than a seagull nest. It is the second, though, that makes his nose wrinkle and brow furrow each time it is used. Charlemagne had never given much thought to love - it had not had much of a place in his society, and he’d always assumed it wouldn’t have any more of one in his life. Certainly not with someone so…capricious with their moods. The unicorn could hardly keep up. It was fascinating, if a little frightening. He certainly feels both in measure when she throws herself against him, bringing with her the scent of wildflowers and the damp of tears. To his credit, the boy does not pull away, though he stiffens in the sand, his nostrils quivering with alarm. Tentatively he presses his muzzle to the arch of her neck. Just as he begins to think that perhaps it’s not so bad, being touched and touching in return, she draws away and he looses a breath that is half relief. He isn’t really sure what the other half is, but the smell of flowers still lingers on his skin. Perhaps, whether her dagger and her wild story were true or not, she is both mad and magic. It could be an enthralling combination. So carefully is he watching her now that he can tell that the smile she puts on is not a real thing - nothing at all like the beaming expression she’d fixed him with before. He’s sorry for it, and perhaps would say something to truly comfort her and see if he could bring it back - but then she pulls out Lover Boy again. Charlemagne sighs, rolling his eyes and turning his gaze instead on the brightening morning. The gulls are waking; the magic of the dawn is past, and the weariness of his journey is settling back on him. She was right. They should move on, and so he starts forward again, in the direction she had been going before the dagger incident. “I don’t know,” he calls over his shoulder. “It doesn’t seem to be doing you much good, does it?” The question, barbed as it is, makes him feel both a little pleased and a little shameful, and he does not look at her as he adds, “What’s your name, anyway? Or I’ll have to come up with something else to call you.” Dagger Girl or Failed Time-Travel Girl or Wild Story Girl don’t have quite the same ring to them. And it still feels like quite the wrong moment to ask more about this war she died in. The colt knew plenty of people who had died in battle, but none who had risen again. @ |
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