The seagulls are careening toward the sky in a wild spiral. Vercingtorix recognises a feeding frenzy when he sees one; it starts out at see and with each push-pull of the waves it draws in, in, in, and hits the shore. The seagulls continue to careen wildly, like a children’s top spinning, spinning, spinning—he can hear their cries from where he rests at the junction where the forest meets the sea.
He is somewhere at the end of Viride Forest, at the mouth of the Rapax where the sea gushes in. But he is looking further down the narrow stretch of beach; further, and further, where the rocks give way to the body of some creature he does not recognise. Eventually, Vercingtorix walks toward it. He feels empty—not powerless, but empty—without his old fishing spear. Naked, more vulnerable than he would like. But he retains the most natural of weapons; they weigh at his head, they strengthen his neck, and he feels the way that when he dips head just so they jut forward.
The carcass belongs to a shark. Vercingtorix does not go near enough to disturb the feast; he hangs back, in the shadow of the trees-to-the-beach. He is a figure there, dark and silhouetted against the backdrop of foliage. He waits to see what else the carcass dredges up from the sea; even from here, he can tell the thing that killed the beast had teeth and strength enough to tear chunks through the shark’s thick, primordial scales.
Somewhere far off, he knows the sun is rising. But not here. Not yet. The early morning remains cool and dark, and he appraises the scene as one appraises a hunter’s trap; with mild, morbid curiosity.
Vercingtorix does not know when, exactly, he lost himself. But he has, and it shows in the hard detachment of his turquoise eyes. Once, he would have approached the scene with a squad of other soldiers, if not a platoon. He would have been flanked by infantrymen with their spears poised and ready.
Now, he is alone. The wind tosses his mane into his eyes; and Torix tosses his head, to dislodge the strands from where they obscure his view. The sea shushes up against the shore, and the shark’s blood continues to colour the sand. Torix sees, now, that the kill is still steaming. Still hot in the crisp, autumn air.
Perhaps it’s killer is not far behind.
“speech” || @Lucinda
