last year I abstained
this year I devour
without guilt
which is also an art
this year I devour
without guilt
which is also an art
They won't do.
The bandages. They're too—Caine sucks in his cheeks, runs his eyes critically over the starched linen—white.
He discards them in a tangled pile at the foot of a weeping willow. But before he turns away, he catches his gaze lingering. Catches it skim along the wet, trampled grass, unhurried, innocent, devoid of purpose. Until grass gives to linen and innocence springs to urgency and a question receives its answer.
No blood on the discarded bandages. Not even a drop. His breath releases slowly, leaving palls of smoke in the apprehensive night. Of course there is none. The healers informed him last evening, smiles lit aglow by the moonlight streaming through the curtains, that his wounds had healed. Beautifully, one had added, when she hadn't found in his expression enough... joy. Relief. Like the others. He'd obliged her, finally, with a closelipped smile.
He doesn't know why he searches for it, the blood; only that it has become something like a compulsion. Like picking at a scab until it gives.
Every morning at the Hospital, after he'd manage to swallow his breakfast (a bland mix of "nutritious oats" that ran from his spoon like pond water, but grey, and therefore worse) a healer would enter to change his bandages.
He would push his bowl away and watch them peel the layers off, one by one, white linen and white linen until—finally—a shock of red. Robin's breast red. They often mistook his stare for worry. They would smile (a Terrastellan custom) and assure him, gently, that it was perfectly normal. "The bandages take off the scarring, you see. For wounds as deep as yours, the scars take longer to set."
He'd shrug. They would nod, half their role fulfilled, and throw the bloody bandages into a bucket bursting of bloody bandages. Some of them would hum as they rewrapped his withers with fresh, crisp linen, and he'd smile and inquire after their day.
Somewhere past the Steppe his hooves make the decision to turn south, instead of north, and he hasn't the heart to correct them. He can stop and rest in the city, stock up on food and canteens of water for the trek through the desert. The journey will be harder this time, because it will be made on foot.
The smell of Denocte envelopes him like warm bathwater. He tilts his head back, and inhales deeply. Smoke, spice, flowers. Children—and cats—weave circles around his legs. There's the Bakery, the Inn, the Tavern. Their names bob in the backwaters of Caine's memory. He hadn't used them with the other spies, they'd moved too often for that. Every night, a different Tavern. Every morning, another Bakery. To attach names was to attach sentiment, and that was one of the many things a spy wasn't allowed. Top of the contract, article number three.
He remembers to adjust his shadow cloak fully over his shoulders before moving further into Denocte's beating heart. Spare Lady Night from the sight, he thinks, snorting lightly. Wouldn't make a very good welcome. He pauses to slip a coin onto the Florist's table, dodges her curious eyes (she, the sole exception to every other anonymous face in this city, would likely recognize him), and requests four blue asters. She will like them, I think. He tucks them carefully into the leather strap binding his dagger to his front leg, and adjusts his cloak once more. A compulsion. Like picking at a scab until it gives.
He moves into the river of the crowd, and whispers for it to sweep him away.
It obeys. The moon swims slowly through the stars, keeping time. It is halfway between the nose of Ursa Minor and the claw of Ursa Major when Caine surfaces besides a troupe of gypsy-coin-strewn dancers. A child as white as a star (as starched bandages) stands before them, too, swaying a little to the music's pull. He does not often notice children; it is an enforced sort of ignoring.
But he notices her, because of her silence. A tangible thing, it is, held close to her chest like a cooing dove. She rocks forwards onto the tips of her hooves, a bird taking flight.
Two, no—he narrows his eyes—three shadows accompany her. Borne from the nebulous matter of her dreams. He feels his magic siphon from him; normally, he would stop it. But tonight, his curiosity is insatiable. Golden antlers sprout from her skull, and the ends of her spectral hair, half of it plaited, bleeds like the sun. His own hair is not plaited. It spills over his neck like oil, skims his knees and curtains his eyes until he pushes it back behind an ear.
He does not turn to the child, and the shadows stand protectively between him and her, but his voice carries like the timbre of a cello through the distance his body cannot: "Did you know? Some nights, the dancers throw gypsy coins into the crowd. Most are fake—painted copper." His silver eyes seek hers, then. Bright, secretive, hollow, yearning.
"Once, I picked up one that was real."
The bandages. They're too—Caine sucks in his cheeks, runs his eyes critically over the starched linen—white.
He discards them in a tangled pile at the foot of a weeping willow. But before he turns away, he catches his gaze lingering. Catches it skim along the wet, trampled grass, unhurried, innocent, devoid of purpose. Until grass gives to linen and innocence springs to urgency and a question receives its answer.
No blood on the discarded bandages. Not even a drop. His breath releases slowly, leaving palls of smoke in the apprehensive night. Of course there is none. The healers informed him last evening, smiles lit aglow by the moonlight streaming through the curtains, that his wounds had healed. Beautifully, one had added, when she hadn't found in his expression enough... joy. Relief. Like the others. He'd obliged her, finally, with a closelipped smile.
He doesn't know why he searches for it, the blood; only that it has become something like a compulsion. Like picking at a scab until it gives.
Every morning at the Hospital, after he'd manage to swallow his breakfast (a bland mix of "nutritious oats" that ran from his spoon like pond water, but grey, and therefore worse) a healer would enter to change his bandages.
He would push his bowl away and watch them peel the layers off, one by one, white linen and white linen until—finally—a shock of red. Robin's breast red. They often mistook his stare for worry. They would smile (a Terrastellan custom) and assure him, gently, that it was perfectly normal. "The bandages take off the scarring, you see. For wounds as deep as yours, the scars take longer to set."
He'd shrug. They would nod, half their role fulfilled, and throw the bloody bandages into a bucket bursting of bloody bandages. Some of them would hum as they rewrapped his withers with fresh, crisp linen, and he'd smile and inquire after their day.
Somewhere past the Steppe his hooves make the decision to turn south, instead of north, and he hasn't the heart to correct them. He can stop and rest in the city, stock up on food and canteens of water for the trek through the desert. The journey will be harder this time, because it will be made on foot.
The smell of Denocte envelopes him like warm bathwater. He tilts his head back, and inhales deeply. Smoke, spice, flowers. Children—and cats—weave circles around his legs. There's the Bakery, the Inn, the Tavern. Their names bob in the backwaters of Caine's memory. He hadn't used them with the other spies, they'd moved too often for that. Every night, a different Tavern. Every morning, another Bakery. To attach names was to attach sentiment, and that was one of the many things a spy wasn't allowed. Top of the contract, article number three.
He remembers to adjust his shadow cloak fully over his shoulders before moving further into Denocte's beating heart. Spare Lady Night from the sight, he thinks, snorting lightly. Wouldn't make a very good welcome. He pauses to slip a coin onto the Florist's table, dodges her curious eyes (she, the sole exception to every other anonymous face in this city, would likely recognize him), and requests four blue asters. She will like them, I think. He tucks them carefully into the leather strap binding his dagger to his front leg, and adjusts his cloak once more. A compulsion. Like picking at a scab until it gives.
He moves into the river of the crowd, and whispers for it to sweep him away.
It obeys. The moon swims slowly through the stars, keeping time. It is halfway between the nose of Ursa Minor and the claw of Ursa Major when Caine surfaces besides a troupe of gypsy-coin-strewn dancers. A child as white as a star (as starched bandages) stands before them, too, swaying a little to the music's pull. He does not often notice children; it is an enforced sort of ignoring.
But he notices her, because of her silence. A tangible thing, it is, held close to her chest like a cooing dove. She rocks forwards onto the tips of her hooves, a bird taking flight.
Two, no—he narrows his eyes—three shadows accompany her. Borne from the nebulous matter of her dreams. He feels his magic siphon from him; normally, he would stop it. But tonight, his curiosity is insatiable. Golden antlers sprout from her skull, and the ends of her spectral hair, half of it plaited, bleeds like the sun. His own hair is not plaited. It spills over his neck like oil, skims his knees and curtains his eyes until he pushes it back behind an ear.
He does not turn to the child, and the shadows stand protectively between him and her, but his voice carries like the timbre of a cello through the distance his body cannot: "Did you know? Some nights, the dancers throw gypsy coins into the crowd. Most are fake—painted copper." His silver eyes seek hers, then. Bright, secretive, hollow, yearning.
"Once, I picked up one that was real."
