—
The unicorn blows out a breath too quiet, too distant for Vercingtorix to catch. Quite the adventure - had he spoken that way to his men, once, as though war were a boy’s storybook? Martell has long since been inured to violence, to the sight of a man bleeding out at his knees, to the sucking breath of a soldier with a punctured lung, to the eyes of a stranger who knows he is dying. But though it may not give him nightmares, he is not the sort to cheapen it by calling war adventure.
He is patient, but he still feels like a cat with coiled muscles waiting for the stranger’s reply. The bay’s vision remains fixed on that dark face, and he listens to his words with the rapt attention of a scholar - or a spy.
When Vercingtorix speaks of those powerful to be an army of themselves, even his heartbeat betrays him by echoing Isra, Isra, Isra. At last Martell looks away, as though the sight of the dawn sea could soothe the burning in him instead of heighten it; he licks his lips. “Nor where I came from,” he says.
He understands the meaning. He understands, too, the way the other soldier searches him, looking for scars.
“Perhaps.” He dips his head, and his long black hair lashes his cheek as the wind picks up from the sea, blowing inland toward the desert. As the man turns, Martell calls after him, “I hope you find a partner for that romantic walk, Vercingtorix.”
As the golden stallion grows smaller down the beach, the unicorn heads inland, toward Solterra, and their prints meet once before being washed away by the surf.
@Vercingtorix
He is patient, but he still feels like a cat with coiled muscles waiting for the stranger’s reply. The bay’s vision remains fixed on that dark face, and he listens to his words with the rapt attention of a scholar - or a spy.
When Vercingtorix speaks of those powerful to be an army of themselves, even his heartbeat betrays him by echoing Isra, Isra, Isra. At last Martell looks away, as though the sight of the dawn sea could soothe the burning in him instead of heighten it; he licks his lips. “Nor where I came from,” he says.
He understands the meaning. He understands, too, the way the other soldier searches him, looking for scars.
“Perhaps.” He dips his head, and his long black hair lashes his cheek as the wind picks up from the sea, blowing inland toward the desert. As the man turns, Martell calls after him, “I hope you find a partner for that romantic walk, Vercingtorix.”
As the golden stallion grows smaller down the beach, the unicorn heads inland, toward Solterra, and their prints meet once before being washed away by the surf.
@
