[ There is a boy in the doorway, and he looks at the woman cradling the skull as one stricken. Fear licks up his bones like the rasp of a lion's tongue and puddles in his blue-green eyes, but it's not the fear of - it is the fear for.
His hands come up palms outward and empty in appeasement, and he flows down to one bent knee with the practiced grace of a knife fighter. His breathing holds to a rhythm even while his pulse kicks in the hollow of his throat. He stays intent on her sunset golden eyes, that much loved color in the wrong face, again, as his own shine with light not in this butcher's chamber.
(There is no one behind him in the doorway, no dark haired, many limbed churn of salt and tide, and if there was, no one is already gone.) ]
2.
His hands come up palms outward and empty in appeasement, and he flows down to one bent knee with the practiced grace of a knife fighter. His breathing holds to a rhythm even while his pulse kicks in the hollow of his throat. He stays intent on her sunset golden eyes, that much loved color in the wrong face, again, as his own shine with light not in this butcher's chamber.
(There is no one behind him in the doorway, no dark haired, many limbed churn of salt and tide, and if there was, no one is already gone.) ]
Do you know me?