If he tells the stranger that he sees severed heads in the dark and colours that don't exist in the light, would he still wish to share the breath of this shadow? There are ghosts out here: ghosts and open wombs ripped asunder by bodiless teeth. Doesn't he know? Man and hound blink in unison; their thoughts straying closer to a place they do not like to go. Ragged torchlight. Screams. Or was it laughter? An end without a goodbye. Raziel's gaze is violet metal on August's spine, counting the dapples like blessings until his eyes strike home on the scarab written like a flesh-borne promise. It isn't the first time he has seen a tattoo: one of his mother's favourite maids had been carpeted in them. She had thought they were novel, in the sort of way a bear finds a berry sweet, and what a curse it was to be brandished before the Solterran elite like a painting Balsheva had bought at auction. Raziel had thought them crude. A stain on otherwise marketable skin. He'd certainly never bothered to ask her why they were there; that would have been asking too much of him. If he had, would he have felt pity for the story she had to tell? One of slave mongers and their affinity for branding their stock. Unlikely. He was not a man known for kindness. In fact, he was not a man known for anything at all. But this man, all sunlight and camel-cream -- you see, his mark catches Raziel's attention. It means something, he can smell it. There are traces of recognition growing like weeds in the night, but he can't quite seem to find their roots. Where had he seen that emblem before? Gahenna's throat closes in the blueprint of a growl but the unicorn silences her with a look. Raziel does not sense the awkwardness that blooms and twists in ugly strides between them. He barely even hears August's voice. Water, Mors, imposing -- words that become meaningless noise in the blink of an eye. He is too focused, too restricted by his ideation. It's always been his downfall. "Your tattoo. Where did you acquire it?" |