She drinks. Watches him watch her, petulant and childish and stooped, and only more frightening of it. That's how it is with dangerous people, dangerous things.
(Saare-bas, And still recalls stumbling over the word, misshapen: Sorry, bas. Sorry,)
She isn't sorry. She's running numbers of her own. The world where she overtakes and kills him, bashes a fragment of these battlements into one lucky blow, then two-dozen more diligent – that world doesn't exist. They both know it.
Victory's sweet. Indulgence rankles, sours the taste of clove and honey. So she turns, and spits it into the yard, and briefly considers faking her own asphyxiation. Just to see, would he turn white or red?
"Poison," She affirms. Shoves the cup back, near-empty, "Come, we find you mittens."
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(Saare-bas, And still recalls stumbling over the word, misshapen: Sorry, bas. Sorry,)
She isn't sorry. She's running numbers of her own. The world where she overtakes and kills him, bashes a fragment of these battlements into one lucky blow, then two-dozen more diligent – that world doesn't exist. They both know it.
Victory's sweet. Indulgence rankles, sours the taste of clove and honey. So she turns, and spits it into the yard, and briefly considers faking her own asphyxiation. Just to see, would he turn white or red?
"Poison," She affirms. Shoves the cup back, near-empty, "Come, we find you mittens."