10-16-2025, 02:47 AM
Her strings cut and the rag doll crumpled. The earth received her like an offering, and he stood over her, chest heaving, arms slack at his sides like the moment after a kill. He was drenched in sweat and something that crawled under his skin and scratched to get out. He had to clench his jaw just to keep from laughing. Or maybe screaming.
The wind rushed past them again, hard enough to rattle the rusting metal signs behind the food stalls.
He looked down at her, limbs sprawled across the dirt like a desecrated saint, her chest rising and falling as if she’d stolen air straight from the gods. She glowed in the aftermath. She always did. He crouched beside her, slow and feline.
One finger, tattooed with the skeletal spine of a serpent, reached out and traced an invisible line from the hollow of her throat to her collarbone. He didn’t touch her. Just hovered. Let the heat of his hand barely ghost the skin.
“You know,” he rasped, voice hoarse from the cold, “they used to burn people for less than that.” His smile was teeth. Not unkindness. Not lust. Just bare. Like a skull under flesh.
“I think we scared the ghosts away.”
The cold was chewing at the sweat on his back now, leaving little ice-pick kisses along his spine. Still he didn’t move, didn’t fetch the coat. He didn’t feel human enough for coats. Not yet. Not while the blood was still humming like a chorus of hornets in his veins. That damned music still lingered in the air. He could hear it, even if the night had swallowed its instruments.
He dropped onto his haunches fully, knees bent like a creature mid-transformation. “What do you think, Litha? Are we prophets now? Or just very enthusiastic madmen?” There was laughter in his voice, but something also serious. He plucked the bottle from the dirt and drank deeply. When he offered it back, his eyes never left her face. Those kohl-rimmed things saw too much and cared too little. Or maybe it was the other way around.
“You’d make a good witch,” he murmured. “An old, wild one. Like Baba Cloantza or Baba Yaga. I’d worship you.” But his voice cracked on the last word, and he clicked his tongue as if to punish it.
And then he laughed, sudden and full-bellied, pitching back onto the dirt beside her, arms sprawled to either side, stomach heaving in and out like tissue paper on the wind. He stared up at the nothing sky, shaking out his sweaty hair.
“...Or maybe we’re just high as hell.”
The wind rushed past them again, hard enough to rattle the rusting metal signs behind the food stalls.
He looked down at her, limbs sprawled across the dirt like a desecrated saint, her chest rising and falling as if she’d stolen air straight from the gods. She glowed in the aftermath. She always did. He crouched beside her, slow and feline.
One finger, tattooed with the skeletal spine of a serpent, reached out and traced an invisible line from the hollow of her throat to her collarbone. He didn’t touch her. Just hovered. Let the heat of his hand barely ghost the skin.
“You know,” he rasped, voice hoarse from the cold, “they used to burn people for less than that.” His smile was teeth. Not unkindness. Not lust. Just bare. Like a skull under flesh.
“I think we scared the ghosts away.”
The cold was chewing at the sweat on his back now, leaving little ice-pick kisses along his spine. Still he didn’t move, didn’t fetch the coat. He didn’t feel human enough for coats. Not yet. Not while the blood was still humming like a chorus of hornets in his veins. That damned music still lingered in the air. He could hear it, even if the night had swallowed its instruments.
He dropped onto his haunches fully, knees bent like a creature mid-transformation. “What do you think, Litha? Are we prophets now? Or just very enthusiastic madmen?” There was laughter in his voice, but something also serious. He plucked the bottle from the dirt and drank deeply. When he offered it back, his eyes never left her face. Those kohl-rimmed things saw too much and cared too little. Or maybe it was the other way around.
“You’d make a good witch,” he murmured. “An old, wild one. Like Baba Cloantza or Baba Yaga. I’d worship you.” But his voice cracked on the last word, and he clicked his tongue as if to punish it.
And then he laughed, sudden and full-bellied, pitching back onto the dirt beside her, arms sprawled to either side, stomach heaving in and out like tissue paper on the wind. He stared up at the nothing sky, shaking out his sweaty hair.
“...Or maybe we’re just high as hell.”