Ana-stasia is pretty.
Ana-stasia is warm.
She decides that she likes these compliments. Does not believe them, does not care enough to believe them, but decides that she likes the way that sound on Chan-tale’s tongue. She likes the way that the other touches her and likes the coldness of her touch—unnaturally cool, unnaturally smooth. Ana cannot help the thoughts of bloated bodies left too long in the sun, but she shakes the thought away. This was different.
“Chan-tale is pretty,” she tries her hand at returning the compliment, but shakes her head, wrinkling her nose in distaste. It did not feel right. “No,” she says simply, although she is not sure whether Chan-tale is pretty or not—only that she is not in a place to say it.
“Chan-tale is some-thing.” She pauses, thoughtfully, nudging at the mare casually, prodding her as if trying to figure it out. “Chan-tale is…”
Her broken tongue fades off here, and she narrows her yellow eyes, “Chan-tale is…cold.” She smiles, delighted that she had thought of the word. “Like dark.” She touches her again, unabashed in it, “Chan-tale is cold. Hard like stone. Like sha-dow.” This pleases her greatly, that the mare who was not steeped in the darkness like some of her latest companions was still somehow similar to the shadows.
“Ana-stasia likes Chan-tale.”
like the moon, we borrow our light
{I am nothing but a shadow in the night}