amaroq
in his own country
Death can be kind
Death can be kind
He likes to see the anger in her eyes, like looking up at the sun through the surface of the water; it means she is alive. It means she is no less than she was when they parted with the taste of the other’s blood in their mouths. It means she is still herself, a woman who -
Who he respects. (Who he could love, if he could remember how to love. But that has never been a useful feeling for his kind.)
She allows them to trade breath; the touch of her skin, rather than settle him, makes him feel more wild. It makes him think that the others should be wary, and not him, though he is a wolf in a village not without its weapons. Who? she asks, and his tail lashes, splitting only fog. Shame curls his lip, anger colors his eyes, but because she asked, he answers.
“We did not trade names. He was big, and black-faced, with horns not unlike yours.” And had Amaroq’s back not been to the sea - he might not have come back. He might never have left at all; his bones might be coral, his shells returned to sand.
Their conversation, like the fog, rolls on. His mouth twitches, a glint of a smile, at her reply. Happiness: another feeling with little use, more fleeing and complicated than joy. Though he had asked the question of her, it feels strange to apply to himself, an ill-fitting skin. “Sometimes.”
Though she does not see it, his smile grows when she speaks again. Her breath feels good and warm against his neck and he stands still and quiet, enough to hear the ocean murmuring down at the docks.
He misses her when she draws away, but follows her indication of the city. “No,” he agrees, and there is relief in the words, not only because she’d said them but because she said we. He does not add that he likes it better this way, cloaked in fog, muffled by winter, cold as a last breath. That the glow of the fires against the white makes him think of that long-ago home, that winter makes them all fearful and thankful to be indoors, with the ice and the darkness shut out.
The unicorn follows her toward the sea.
But his eyes meet hers when she speaks his name. The syllables land like an arrow striking; how long has it been since he’s heard it on another’s lips? Not since she spoke it on the island. And before that- ?
“It isn’t good to be alone,” he says softly, an echo of their first meeting. And then, because there is something he must say, too, he blows out a soft breath. “I am sorry I didn’t help you look for him. I will, if - if you are still searching.” Ice grows around his heart even as he says it.
@Boudika |
