some memories never leave your bones.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
He does not know how her heart trips and dips as she looks to the woods. How can he when her eyes are set sharp as fangs? Upon his skin they sink deep. He might squirm beneath the hold of her eyes, if he were more rabbit and less fox. The girl has not moved. She is still made of perfect marble - midnight, moonlight, sunlight - every light a boy can think of. But her head turns, slowly, impassively as iron. It is a miracle the child moves at all.
She is no balm for Leonidas’ loneliness. The cold of her still body, the cold of her eyes, the cold, he thinks, of her blood beneath her skin. He wants to touch her and find out if she is as cold as hard as he believes she might be.
Then, then she calls him strange. A stranger. The child turns him into a predator and the boy blinks. Is this what his loneliness has got him? It feels more like hope to have a friend with him in the woods. She turns it into something dangerous. But oh, Leonidas does not think he is the dangerous one here. He thinks of the girl spun together from Rift magic who hunted him hungry and savage. It spoke to the wild Time magic within him. Yet this girl, she seems only cruel, the way she watches him with her pale-strange eyes.
“I am not the only strange one here.” The older boy breathes as he does not deny his nature. His eyes trickle over her, he might pity her more if he could hear how her thoughts are filled with assurance that the meadow longs to consume her. Wrap her up in its roots, pull her down into the earth.
The fae-boy draws back, gilded eyes fluttering closed for the merest moment. When they open, he is no longer a lonely boy yearning for comfort amidst the reaching arms of the lovely dark wood. No, he looks back that regal stag, accustomed to his loneliness, proud of his life, his territory. “And what do mothers know of anything at all?” An orphan boy asks remembering only the blurred and dusty shadow of a figure that was once his mother. He smiles. It is not pretty upon his handsome lips, it is a scar of hurt and anger, “They do not care. They are the ones to leave us.”
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