you always loved the strange birds; adaline

[adaline]

— A D A L I N E — your mouth is poison; your mouth is wine (you think your dreams are the same as mine) Adaline has to wonder if there is more to their camaraderie than just the blood that runs through their papery veins; was there not something stronger to the understanding each had for the other’s plight? She knew what it was like to fear a particularly rocky path or to shy away when she heard the loud crack of a branch snapping beneath some passing stranger (how easily that could be the crack of her own bones). There was something in the understanding, and she is soothed to just be near him. She sighs deeply and rests the curve of her cheek lightly against his neck. She doesn’t need him to finish the thought for her to know what he was thinking. Death, after all, was a constant companion for them both. She did not need to be reminded that Death followed her for every step she took, and that Death had trailed her back home like a wolf waiting for supper. Some day, Death would claim her (and she would let it), but she was content for now to shut the door and keep it at bay for one more day.  For now, she did not feel the knife at her throat, and it was enough. (Not enough. Never enough. But she could fool herself into such thinking.) “Where have you been?” she questioned softly, as if she was not the one who had left their homeland to venture into the great unknown. But that didn’t matter—not to her. All she wanted to know was where he had been lying his head every night; all she wanted to hear was that he was happy and safe. Once those fears had been assuaged, perhaps she would tell him of the non-adventures she had. Perhaps then she would tell him of the long walks and the loneliness and how even outside their sheltered world in Beqanna, the world was the same.  All corners and edges and Death waiting at the corner with clever eyes and yellowed teeth.