05-25-2016, 11:09 AM
He is used to the weight of their eyes.
Some of it is curiosity, those interested in the inlay of veins and arteries made visible by the translucence of his skin. Some of it is hunger, a predator’s desire to see him broken. His whole body is a beacon, a thing begging to be broken, and he is acutely aware of this.
He longs to be strong, to be steel, to be a king. But he is too fragile for that, he would be usurped in a moment. Prey is not meant to be powerful, and he is prey.
Still, he forges a tenuous existence like this. He is always aware.
(And he doesn’t say their names or imagine their faces – the girl who loved him enough to bring him back, and the girl who loved him, but not enough to keep from killing him.)
For a moment something tenses in the woman and he is ready to flee, but then she realizes herself and he sees her relax. He steadies himself.
“I’m Contagion,” he tells her as another mare comes forth, gives her name – Kena – and he nods to her.
She asks about the wonders of Beqanna but truth is, Contagion has seen more disasters than wonders. But he is an odd tale.
So, he does his best.
“Colors,” he says, “horses like the rainbow.”
He remembers sky blue markings tracing up her impossibly strong body. Before she turned to a wolf and gobbled him whole.
“And magic,” he says, “there’s so much magic. Some fly, some bend water, or light, or fire. Some shift into--”
He almost says wolves.
“all sorts of animals. And there’s a place where the dead walk again. Though not everybody can go there. It’s not the nicest place.”
Indeed, he’d hated being dead. Or hated the way he’d died. He isn’t sure which.
He could continue, but he doesn’t. He can’t stop thinking of wolves.
Instead, he turns his attention to her.
“Where are you from?”
contagion
be careful making wishes in the dark