ares who exchanges
bodies for gold;
bodies for gold;
Even as she stands, still and poised and nearly Greek (she learned it from her mother), there is something inside of Apolonia that trembles at the sight of the girl.
Shakes at her beauty.
It is that unnamed thing, full of admiration (or some sick cousin of it), that brings her closer, step by step, to marvel. To watch like a predator the long silver legs, the bright coral fringe. It tugs her by the heartstrings to close the space between them. Now, in the brightest kiss-patches of moonlight, O can see her clearer than ever, and she wants to gasp; she cannot put a name nor a reason to the hold the girl has on her, but it exists, indubitably, and she is prisoner to it as much as Anandi is prisoner to her invisible hunger. (Though neither of them could possibly know so, yet.)
She smiles. And her smile is—
Sharp, wolfish like O’s and her mother’s, and yet… it is sweet, In the way wind is sweet when it comes off the water, bright and cool, pulling the air from the girl’s lungs. Come closer. She hears it in her head, her own voice. A bell-sound, coming from an unopened siren’s mouth. Her ears ring.
This is not love. She reminds herself of it with a biting disappointment. This is not love. O is not quite that stupid, even for a girl her age, and it’s not love, but—it’s something, something that she hasn’t felt at all before. And she will not let it go. Cannot. It is like a drug already, the rush of admiration and adrenaline that shocks her little hurt. And so as the seconds pass and the feeling starts to fade, O steps forward again, one clipped stride at a time, toward a smile she would desire even if it contained a black hole (or those sharp, sharp teeth).
“It was,” O admits with something like sheepishness, “But now…” She pauses again. Mid-stride, mid-speech. “I don’t know.”
For the first time in a long time she has forgotten the weight of the axe at her hip.
“Aaa-nandi,” she repeats, rolling it in her mouth like a candy, like a little treasure. It feels like a pearl—like something precious beyond words or worlds, and almost she feels bad for using it, like it’ll be worn out by all the sharp corners of her mouth. “You are… like nothing I’ve seen, Anandi.”
Her name feels cheap now. Maybe it’s time to use the one so far reserved for special occasions. (This feels like a special occasion.)
She pulls in a deep breath, and: “My name is Apolonia."
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