i see everything;
that is my curse
that is my curse
It is easier to hunt when the prey is real. It is easier to kill when the thing is made to die.
This is nothing like that. This is magic in the most barren sense of the word, lawless and godless and bereft not only of morals but of rules. The sand-snake does not care for its mortal coil. It cares even less for the petty flight of blades at its skin, swirling through like cloud-stream. O winces as she watches her axe pass through harmlessly. It comes twirling back to her, bright and pretty as anything god-made, and through her disappointment still something like relief aches at the sight of it returning to her.
Thank God, thank God, thank God. There is only so much a girl can lose.
The belly splits open like such a bad seam, and inside is something beautiful beyond words, and stranger, and more terrifying. Blood comes down in ruby-red smiles, berries grow and burst and then wither in the same heartbeat. Roots curl upward, swooping as easily beautiful as any wave on the white-sand shore. And O’s tongue and nostrils burn as the liquid streams onto her skin, but she does not pause.
If anything her hooves fly faster. There is no time to waste, not even a moment of deciding. The relic is shining so close, covered in the sweet glitter of blood, and was there not a thing more made for her, girl born from a gun?
“Fetch,” she mutters to Tuchulca, and throws the axe again.
It goes whistling-whistling-whistling through the air, clear and bright as birdsong. For a moment the world seems strangely calm. And a heartbeat later it all breaks open again with the sound of screaming and gasping and hoofbeats. O is pounding across the sand on nimble feet, following its path in a full sprint, paying no attention to the shedding leaves or even the knowledge that she might—die. No bear will stop her. No wave, no wind, no mortal competition.
One ivory hoof reaches out to skim the stream of black glass, and—
O chooses option 1!
