[ Amyranth is everywhere. That's the first thing they learn.
It bodes poorly for them, if they ever think of backtracking, of renegging on the oaths they'd sworn (not written in blood nor spoken on a day of solstice but made in the shadow of their parents' names). The Amyranth are scattered to the four winds, they are clustered dense and thick in all the major cities. Even here, at the supposed edge of the world, they exist — a meager caravan of trailers and mobile homes dotting a field at the base of a salt-stained mountain.
In the end, they're given a choice: the cities, the country or here. In the end, Cem chooses here. (She's willful and beautiful and Cal loves her, and so — in the end — he says yes.)
He wakes to find her already out of bed, sitting on the porch of the trailer, respooling a length of thread she's plied with strands of her own hair. The sun is still tucked down below the horizon and so the swan-length of her pale neck is painted shades of blue and lilac, her slender fingers working nimbly. (She's offered to do the mending for the caravan's wife and, with any luck, Cem will sew her way into their home and under their skin, like some sweet-smiling leech.) ]
[ (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?
Mm, [ she says with a nod, pausing just long enough to tuck a stray tendril of bright red hair back behind her ear. The end of it carries out on the wind in protest, as if looking to chase that waft of magic out across the dew-wet grass and over the foothills. It's a very Amyranthian thing to, to go running after magic that doesn't belong to her and maybe that, at the end of the day, is what sets Cal's veins to itching. (What would father and mother say if they saw us like this? What would anyone in Achadh say, if they knew how quickly and how insipidly little Cem had had a change of heart? That's Amyranth, through and through. Maybe.
Maybe.)
She doesn't bother to look up from her work though Cem does lean to one side as soon as the step sags slightly beneath her brother's weight. She leans and then leans some more, leans until her shoulder bumps against his, elbow nudging at his side like she's trying to tease out a secret. Cem smells of sap and crushed sage. Magical things, bright and fresh, though underneath it all there's that tannic cloy — musky and bitter, like a terrible aftertaste. (She didn't always used to smell like that.) ]
They'll all be lucky in the end, [ she says, somewhat obviously. (Children can afford to be obvious, but neither of them are children anymore. They haven't been for a long time now.) ] But for now, it's Marie and Charlie. [ Cem smiles to herself. It's still pretty, even if the thought that inspires it isn't. ] They seem nice.
[ It makes him laugh, a quiet huff of a sound tinged with barely-concealed grey. (Nice. What the hell does that mean, here? Nice?) Cal's fingers run through the bowl, picking out bits that catch his eye; a lump of dried apricot, an oat, a flake of corn. ] Then Amyranth's full of the luckiest and nicest. [ A distinction: them, not us. (Not us; don't forget that. Not us.)
The line of contact between them is solid and sure because Cal, for as long as he has had a sibling, has tried to forge it so. Their point of contact solidifies that soft hum of kindred magic, the earthy brown that exists beneath Cem's sap and sage and his metal and wine; of things older and stronger than they are, given enough push. ]
Be careful. [ A quiet and low-whispered thing, as much warning as it is concern. ] No close-calls, Cem. Don't over-extend yourself.
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Home sweet home.
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It bodes poorly for them, if they ever think of backtracking, of renegging on the oaths they'd sworn (not written in blood nor spoken on a day of solstice but made in the shadow of their parents' names). The Amyranth are scattered to the four winds, they are clustered dense and thick in all the major cities. Even here, at the supposed edge of the world, they exist — a meager caravan of trailers and mobile homes dotting a field at the base of a salt-stained mountain.
In the end, they're given a choice: the cities, the country or here. In the end, Cem chooses here. (She's willful and beautiful and Cal loves her, and so — in the end — he says yes.)
He wakes to find her already out of bed, sitting on the porch of the trailer, respooling a length of thread she's plied with strands of her own hair. The sun is still tucked down below the horizon and so the swan-length of her pale neck is painted shades of blue and lilac, her slender fingers working nimbly. (She's offered to do the mending for the caravan's wife and, with any luck, Cem will sew her way into their home and under their skin, like some sweet-smiling leech.) ]
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?
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Maybe.)
She doesn't bother to look up from her work though Cem does lean to one side as soon as the step sags slightly beneath her brother's weight. She leans and then leans some more, leans until her shoulder bumps against his, elbow nudging at his side like she's trying to tease out a secret. Cem smells of sap and crushed sage. Magical things, bright and fresh, though underneath it all there's that tannic cloy — musky and bitter, like a terrible aftertaste. (She didn't always used to smell like that.) ]
They'll all be lucky in the end, [ she says, somewhat obviously. (Children can afford to be obvious, but neither of them are children anymore. They haven't been for a long time now.) ] But for now, it's Marie and Charlie. [ Cem smiles to herself. It's still pretty, even if the thought that inspires it isn't. ] They seem nice.
no subject
The line of contact between them is solid and sure because Cal, for as long as he has had a sibling, has tried to forge it so. Their point of contact solidifies that soft hum of kindred magic, the earthy brown that exists beneath Cem's sap and sage and his metal and wine; of things older and stronger than they are, given enough push. ]
Be careful. [ A quiet and low-whispered thing, as much warning as it is concern. ] No close-calls, Cem. Don't over-extend yourself.