ICARUS FAKED HIS DEATH. CRAWLED ONTO THE SHORE, SKIN SPARKLING GOLD AND REDDENED, AND APOLLO SAID, "YOUR FATHER WON'T FIND US HERE."
I have always liked sharp things.
Things you could cut yourself on.
Others preferred the tridents and hooks so particular to our kind of warfare; I had loved the blades, the two-sided fishing spears.
I have always loved the boys, with their hard edges. The rest of my companions had sought the luscious curves our of our country’s women; but not me. Things you could cut yourself on. He is sylphlike; he is angles and slim and a little like a shard of sun-bright glass. His colours ought make him soft; they ought fool me into complacent friendliness.
But when he comes to my table as if expecting the gesture, when he smiles as brilliantly and dangerously as me, I am utterly charmed. I am utterly enticed.
“Hm. Kind for some.” I do not say it threateningly. He has a nice face, although the markings he bares unnerve me just so. I have seen too many Khashran bearing the scars of my people to believe it entirely innocent; how many suns had I painted upon the brows of my enemies, to know that Cain’s mark comes in many forms? “Are you from Denocte?” I ask, and it is nearly conversational. I take a drink of the tea.
I try to keep my eyes from devouring him.
I try to convince myself I shouldn’t.
I try not to think of a red and black horse on a blacker beach, running a hairsbreadth in front of me, laughing into the wind.
I have always liked sharp things.
Even the pain of memories.
@Elchanan
