how willing you must be to kill angels
Why? Are you lonely?
Vercingtorix’s lips turn into a smile that is as deprecating as his comment had been. But then something changes. Then he turns to face the red bay stranger; his smile becomes, abruptly, genuine.
Or seemingly so, at least. Irregardless, it remains as honed as a blade.
“Who isn’t lonely?” Vercingtorix answers a question, with another question.
Perhaps he would have warmed even more, if he could only begin to comprehend the shared nature of their visits to the sea. If only he knew that when the red stallion stared out across the expanse of tumultuous waves, they were painted with a woman’s wicked touch. A touch that marked them irrevocably. A touch that stole the beauty from them.
If only Vercingtorix could admit he, too, stared longingly out at the foam and froth and turmoil in hopes of seeing a glimmer of red, a dark shadow, the flash of a leonine tail.
If only he knew both their women had ruined the sea for them.
But now, Vercingtorix does not. Now, his eyes only appraise a fellow soldier with a lean musculature and stern expression of the face. He is handsome, Vercingtorix thinks, before he can curb the thought.
“Why are you here?” He delivers the question with deflated curiosity, only after deciding he doesn’t have an answer to the question himself.
