even monsters are made of stardust
The water is littered with stars stuck fast to its surface, blinking away the night as it spins on around them. She’s gazing at them (something she should not do, in a place she should not be), her reflection blotting out a Zosma-shaped slice of the heavens. There is an odd feeling that rises in the roiling depths of her stomach, a disquiet that comes from being so close to the stars that are so far away in reality. So far away that there is no hope of ever returning to them. So far away that she will never again feel her own flesh searing off by her proximity to the sun. So far away that she will be grounded here, as a mockery of the Fallen.
A stranger in a strange land that she used to call home.
It is not all so bleak, she knows. She may forever walk this earth feeling like a piece of herself is missing (not missing, even, merely lost in space), but there are pursuits to be had here, too. There are wondrous things, miraculous things, in this place they’ve named Beqanna. There are the power struggles of nations, the rising and toppling of dynasties. There are secrets that spread through the land like her shadows, shaping the lives in unimaginable ways. There are beautiful women – and men – that she finds in those same shadows. But pursuits of the flesh never hold her attention for too long. Most are afraid of her, besides. She only needs an anchor to tether her so she does not continue drifting out of reach. She only needs to get away from this godforsaken water.
Movement like molasses, sure and steady, catches in the corner of her eyes.
He’d been coming on slowly, but the demoness had only cared about the water and the stars it held. Now, she looks up from her guilty post to watch his approach. Zosma watches him watching her with an inscrutable gaze. She’s used to the staring but not the silence that follows. Usually there are questions, usually there is Fear. Occasionally, there is shouting and damning and running away.
She likes when they run best of all.
But this one with his air of indifference makes her feel vulnerable, somehow. The longer the silence lasts, she feels more and more like he is making his own assumptions, cataloguing her in a way he has no right to do. She wants to wait him out but she inevitably finds herself unable to hold her tongue.
“A gentleman might simply ask,” she chides, though it is all bullshit. She wonders if he’ll see right through it. The scaled woman makes no other moves yet. If his intentions are any less than desirable, she’ll be happy to separate his head from his neck with the fangs that poke out of her parted mouth. He’s a handsome thing (for a man), she realizes, as her opal eyes quickly glance over his mulberry coat and feathered feet. In her experience, handsome men could be trusted the very least.
zosma
@[woolf]