jamie
from the destruction, out of the flame
You are me.
This is the first time he has ever been accused of such a thing. He holds the accusation like a marble between his teeth. He lets it slide like bile down the long column of his throat. He has believed himself to be a figment of their collective imaginations, but he has never believed himself to be them. But perhaps the roan stallion is right. The shadow thing does not pretend to understand magic beyond his fog and shadows, only knows that his mother’s is far greater. He does not know what she is capable of, Anaxarete.
Perhaps he is right.
And the shadow thing grins, all those sharp teeth in that ink black mouth. How it pleases him to think it. Because it means that the pain is not his.
“I am you,” the shadow thing muses. The breath rattles and the ribcage aches and the heart – real or imagined – chugs something painful. There is no relief in it. Knowing that the pain is not his does nothing to alleviate it. He grits his teeth with the realization, closes up his mouth, and there is nothing left of him but the eyes as he studies the stallion.
He has never contemplated murder, Jamie. But the pain is unbearable.
“Are you in pain?” he asks the stallion. Because he is not rash or impulsive. He is measured, methodical, this shadow thing. And he tilts his peculiar head and sinks a little closer still. Until he can smell him. The fear and the sorrow and the murky darkness. And the fog twists through both of their legs, snakes its way up the roan stallion’s back, spreads down his shoulders. Jamie can feel its embrace, because they are the same.
“If I am you, my pain must be your pain,” he wheezes, blinking those big yellow eyes. There is something sinister in the voice and he makes no effort to conceal it.
He drags in one long rattling breath, studying him through the dark. He tries to touch him then but finds that being two parts of the same whole does not make him any more tangible. His edges go soft where they touch the stallion’s shoulder. He feels nothing. He is vapor.
“Aren’t you tired?” he murmurs, almost wistful. “I’m so tired,” he whispers and closes his eyes, disappearing altogether.
you need a villain, give me a name
