jamie
He feels some strange pang in his chest.
‘I know,’ the child had said.
And he had been left to wonder who’d mentioned him to her. Or if she had merely puzzled it out herself. Or if she had some magic to her that he did not understand.
(There is so much magic in Beqanna that he does not understand.)
But he does not ask. Merely ducks his head to press his forehead gratefully against his sister’s cold shoulder. It is from there that he peers down to witness the pure white fog that curls around them. Intermingled with his sister’s smoke, a shade darker. And if he had not walked all that way to catch up with them, he might have had the strength to conjure his own fog. But he is tired down to the marrow of his bones, so he can only quirk a placid smile.
Their exchange – brief, simple – prompts him to raise his head and he squints at his sister when she calls his attention to her. She has wedged herself between the two of them – one stark black and one so impossibly white – but the light still leaks into those bright yellow eyes when he looks at Livinia. She flashes him a smile and he smiles, too.
The excitement that stirs at the very pit of him is subdued but there all the same. He reaches out and bumps her with his nose. He wonders about the white child’s magic. Surely it is more than it appears to be on the surface.
“Who are your parents?” he asks the girl, ducking his head behind Livinia’s shoulder again. “Where did you get your magic?” The ability to conjure brilliant white fog, the ability to manipulate the anatomy of others. It reminds him of their mother, certainly. Wonders, quite abstractly, if there is any relation.
@[Beyza]