rhubarb, sour sweet / xov & marceline, day 3

The cold air rushed into Xov’s face when they reached the edge of the mine, the sunlight on the snow nearly blinding her. She let out a few coughs, lungs rejecting the coal dust. She felt like a newborn baby emerging from the womb of the earth, everything so harsh and overstimulating that for a second she wanted to recoil back into the eternal darkness. At least it had been warm down there, but she was probably going to get black lung disease now.

”I’m just gonna get some air,” she wheezed to Juno and Marcus, stepping out into the light.

No sign of Gus the buffalo yet. She half-hoped she would run into him again–half, because he was another mouth to feed, but he was also a warm little ball of wool. In Twelve, she’d never had pets, but now she understood why some people preferred the company of animals. They didn’t ask for explanations, and they gave comfort like it was second nature.

She could hear footsteps in the snow up ahead. Maybe… was it her little guy? Curious, she broke into a jog. But she stopped in her tracks when she saw the hunched figure seated on the rock.

Marceline greeted her with the blade of a knife. A surprised sound escaped from Xov’s throat; it sounded like “Oh.” Xov looked from the knife to Marceline, from Marceline to the knife. Her palms turned upwards, but her jaw was tense.

”I’m not about to hex you,” she clarified, tip of the knife sloping downward. Xov nodded. She had lived in the woods all her life, and knew an animal baring its teeth in defense when she saw one.

”Please don’t,” she answered, referring to more than the hex. ”Although if you can think of something better than cursing my bloodline, I’ll applaud your creativity.”

A glimmer of light caught Marceline’s eyes, betraying the tears on her cheeks. Xov pretended not to notice, feeling her empathy exhausted, knocked out by the rubble falling from the mine, maybe.

”So what’s the story with that one? Let me guess--she's nice when you get to know her?” Sarcasm soured her voice, harsher than she meant. So be it. Xov stood stiff, palms out, feet apart, eyes searching Marceline’s face for a clue.

Would she act like the same innocent city girl who had never touched grass? Or like the girl who had killed the girl from Five with her bare hands?