KILLERS IN
AMERICA
WORK SEVEN
DAYS A WEEK
O is too young to remember the witch Nimue and how she stole Tempus’ relic from the maze. It is before her time, before she was even born — but even if she does not remember, she knows. It is something in her as strong and confident as a creature instinct, like fear. She knows of the God’s power. Of the power of the relic. She knows that she cannot possibly be the only one that thinks Tempus when she hears the first story of the note and the unicorn, and she knows that it will take more than luck to find it before they do.
The island is beautiful, and dangerous. Like her. Like her mother. (And speaking of her mother, where had Bexley gone —? Sometimes O thinks that when Acton died, Bexley went with him —)
So she knows better, even her, small thing, than to trust any of it, even the pretty flowers unfurling toward the light, even the birds with their brimstone eyes. All the pretty things have the sharpest teeth. She is careful to keep her step to the marked path and not to let the foliage brush her. Careful not to linger too long when she eyes the island’s fruit longingly. But oh, it is difficult - O feels the desire to explore tugging at her chest like a magnet, and she has to grit her teeth to keep from reaching out and brushing her lips against the deep-red fruits, the lush green leaves that call to her like sirens. Sunlight dapples the sand and marbles her skin. Everything is cast in a pretty orange glow, kissed by a soft light like a god.
Don’t look, don’t want. But it is impossible.
More than anything there is a feral desire in her chest that begs stay here, look around, kiss the sand. O has not felt anything like it before.
Maybe this is love — a little poison in her chest that asks for too much and, in return, wants to kill her. Maybe that is what’s happened to her mother.
The statue is smooth obsidian rearing high into the air; O, as she stares up at it, can’t help but envy the sharpness of its horn. A thin clump of horses stand at varying distances, as if they are afraid of it. O is not. The promise of adventure makes her woefully (stupidly) brave. She sidles up close, her tiny hooves barely denting the sand, and reaches her head high, higher and higher until she is inches from the note, scrutinizing everything from the mismatched writing to the paper it’s printed on. Her heart thrums loudly in her narrow chest. The wind goes rushing past, ruffles the long silk-black of her hair.
O smiles, for she does not know how to be afraid.
And then she gives the statue a crisp nod and slinks past it into the depths of the jungle.
STAFF EDIT***
@Apoloniahas rolled a 2! She has been awarded +100 signos.
