[ (He says yes because in the beginning they were trapped either way, and Cal — Cal didn't know how to blunt the sharpness of his anger or magic. He knows now, though. Time heals almost everything.)
It's still cold out. Cal sits down wordlessly, fingers rifling through his bowl full of dry cereal. The threadbare shirt he slept in ripples in the wake of a breeze that carries the smallest thimbleful of magic; he can see it, the olive haze that means someone's tried to tie the north wind into a knot to keep. Cal's brows furrow as it passes, the turn of his head following it until it disappears out of sight. Achadh lived by a simple but good creed and everything Amyranth does is a slick-tar perversion; one day it will turn inwards and eat away regardless of rot or hunger. Then, maybe, he'll feel full.
But that comes later. Later, but still inevitable: he's sure of it. Until then— ]
Slept well? [ He asks eventually, cornflakes rattling against the ceramic sides. That spool of thread makes something in Cal's veins itch. He's still not sure what that means. ] Who's our lucky neighbor?
no subject
It's still cold out. Cal sits down wordlessly, fingers rifling through his bowl full of dry cereal. The threadbare shirt he slept in ripples in the wake of a breeze that carries the smallest thimbleful of magic; he can see it, the olive haze that means someone's tried to tie the north wind into a knot to keep. Cal's brows furrow as it passes, the turn of his head following it until it disappears out of sight. Achadh lived by a simple but good creed and everything Amyranth does is a slick-tar perversion; one day it will turn inwards and eat away regardless of rot or hunger. Then, maybe, he'll feel full.
But that comes later. Later, but still inevitable: he's sure of it. Until then— ]
Slept well? [ He asks eventually, cornflakes rattling against the ceramic sides. That spool of thread makes something in Cal's veins itch. He's still not sure what that means. ] Who's our lucky neighbor?