a thousand years in perfect symmetry | slate

When it's over, and the fire crackles into the evening sun and her wounds are tended to as best she could, Slate tugs at the ribbon wrapped around her neck and peers at the portrait of a stranger.

She's pretty and proud, prowling through the camera lens into Slate's soul. But Slate just stares back, narrowing her eyes, squaring up an image of a girl she doesn't recognise. It's habit not to trust strangers, but if this girl were here in front of her Slate might take up her acquaintance.

Or she'd try and kill her.

Slate thinks the other girl would have similar ideas in mind.

"Who are you?" she whispers, watching her portrait sway in front of her like a pendulum. Lace necklace ties wrap themselves up in her tight grasp and the fire she lit minutes ago flickers and sparks, boiling water and warming the bread she'd found. But they are secondary to her attention, wrapped up in a girl with a mane of gorgeous hair and a steadfast glare.

"Do I know you?"

Of course, the girl doesn't respond back. She just stares, and stares, and stares.

"Did I know you?"

Eventually Slate's stomach growls and she grows bored of the girl, pocketing her away in her bag for safekeeping. Whoever she was, whatever her name was, wherever she came from, Slate felt the girl a good omen to keep close. Perhaps she would find out who the girl was in time, but for now - she would feast.