ares who exchanges
bodies for gold;
bodies for gold;
She watches him, and does not think she has ever been so confused in her life.
He looks like a desert horse, like he should belong here: thin, slanting ribs and shoulders; a slim head with large, bloody eyes—but he’s obviously not from this continent, or maybe even this world.
O is used to magic. She is used to strangeness and evil kinds of charm. But this—this is different. This is sickness. His whole body speaks of frailty. His voice is a frog’s croak, somehow both grating and wet. When he flails in the cold water of the Oasis that Apolonia knows so well, she almost winces, as if she is afraid that sickness will leach right out of him and into her home.
It does not seem all that improbable, just looking at him.
Like a cat she slinks down from the dune where she’s watched him, neat hooves disturbing the sand as she descends on long, barely-coordinated legs. Tuchulcha bangs against her hip, singing “careful, careful, careful!”
“I will be,” O whispers back, and she knows it is a lie. Still her lips curl into a clean savage smile, still her body thrills with new excitement as she makes her way to him, predator and prey (though it is hard to tell, now, which is which).
Then she sees the knife.
Almost her step falters, so entranced is she by the shining gold of the grip and the blinking eyes of dark red rubies, the point lodged so deep it’s become invisible—even stranger than that, the smoggy, pure-black virus or mold that spreads out from it in craggy rings. Sick he is, and worse than she would have ever guessed.
But what a lovely blade that is.
With a smile she bounds down to the edge of the water, stops above him with a look of mild concern: “Hello,” O says sweetly, “Do you need help?”
Demon.
@sada | "speech" | notes: <3
