I was born sickbut I love it
The chill of winter sears his skin and burrows into his bones (it rips him open like a novice surgeon to their practice patient, it numbs him better than any medication, it crawls into his body like infesting spiders) but he doesn’t seek warmth from others. He slinks across the ice alone, playing tricks on his mind to force the cold away. A recent snowing scattered the remains of decaying leaves and leftover crumbs from the trees from his skinny body (hiding the evidence of his slumber, erasing the physical proof of his bedding).
Leave it to the jokester for a woman to catch his eye (especially in the winter, just after breeding season, when the sluts were either filled with children or hiding from the bastards); granted it’s one who looks relatively pissed off. Gangly legs bring him closer (bowlegged, scarred forelegs with internal stitches from a magician’s sewing) and he finally exercises his tricks on a waking mind.
Suddenly (as she’s grazing, lips reaching for the frozen blades, mind roiling with boredom) she will feel a difference within her brain. A slight shift, a light being switched on, an invading sense (and his dark fingers creep in, slender and shadowy, twining around her senses and flirting with her conscious). And then she will taste the grass and it will disintegrate in her mouth. It will feel rotten and sandy and juicy and hot and crunchy and filmy and freezing all at once and her surprise will make her pull away. The distant gaze of a murdered fawn looks back at her (an un-breathing, blood-seeping, rancid-smelling, rib-showing, tongue-lolling fawn).
Resisting the urge to giggle maniacally, the graying silver bay sneaks to her side and gasps at the mare, bruised eyes (the right blue and black, the left blue and white) opening wide comically. “Wholly shit, did you just eat that?”
LOKII
