a song of bone ● euley v. zombie [day 3]

The evening passes in silence. A lazy haze settles over the alliance once they finish setting up camp, unpacking their items and tying down their sleigh for the night. Euley removes the plant-hedgehogs from their harnesses, taking the time to stroke each of them under the chin in a show of gratitude. "Don't wander too far." She rolls her shoulders with a yawn, limbs stretched, and she smiles faintly. There's still blood on her boots, still a dark cloud that has taken position above the four of them, but she's never been one for repentance. A dead beast and a dead girl; she's forgotten the difference between the two. A corpse is a corpse. Different scars, same ending.

Red flowers are traded for springs of steaming water, and when things are more settled, she might finally have the chance to unwind. First, she focuses on her allies. Fresh bandages are reapplied over Isaac's cuts, followed by new stitches and adjustments to those that were torn during their fight. She doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to thank her, and she doesn't need to coddle him. All it takes is a palm against his face, a warm expression and a gentle nod. To love a bomb is to let it detonate. She walks away, sitting down to clean her crampons and not bothering to remove them from her feet. Her focus and whistling is interrupted by confused murmurs, however, and she lifts her gaze to see Violetta holding a new weapon.

She chuckles to herself, rising up and strolling over with a friendly smirk. "You look like a lost kitten, Vi," she starts, reaching out a hand to cup Violet's cheek and running a thumb over the flushed skin. There's nothing taunting about her voice, no judgment. To nurture is foreign for her, but it's also familiar; she's raised wolves from infancy and trained them to hunt their prey. How difficult can it be to teach a rabbit to do the same? "C'mon," she continues, spinning on her heels and walking away from their campsite. "I've got nothing better to do." She waves for her ally to join her, nodding to Violet's crampons once she finally joins Euley. "Let's teach you how to put those to good use, hmm?"

Her grip is awkward, unsure and anxious and it almost pains Euley to watch. Not because it means Violet is lesser, not because the girl's abilities determine her worth, but the display of such low confidence is saddening. The Salazar heiress admits to not being able to move like Euley, but what does that matter? No two wildfires have the same flames. "Don't move like me, then. You need to find your own center." She closes the distance between them, taking hold of Violet's wrists and adjusting the stance of her limbs, urging her palms to grasp the weapons more confidently. Without fear. "You've got some experience with a knife, yeah? Use that to your advantage."

The dance of a rose and a serpent, she positions herself behind Violet and wraps her arms around the girl. She takes control of Salazar's hands and guides her through a few swinging techniques. "These are larger than what you're used to, but the technique still works. It's harder to miss, yeah?" She untangles herself, going back to face the younger tribute and speaking with passion. "It's not about grace. There's nothing beautiful about keeping yourself alive." A stray strand of dark hair is tucked behind Violet's ear. "Be wild. Swing with everything you've got, and don't be afraid to show your teeth. You're a storm." Thunder roars and lightning flashes; this is the ballet of a woman.

"I'll try, but it feels more like I'm a light drizzle.
Jacinta was the storm."

Such innocence, a garden snake in a pit of vipers — and Euley still means what she said. She could eat Violet up. "Oh, darling," and she laughs. Thunderous and proud. "We're all storms. Each of us. You just have to find out what kind you are." ( "What kind are you?" ) She grins, leaning forward to place a kiss atop Violet's head. "I'll tell you one day." And she will, she promises. Through ice or fire or a rising flood; she will tell her companion the truth. Just not yet. Not until the hourglass has shattered and the time has come to finally sleep. She stays only long enough to watch a few more of the girl's swings, pursing her lips, and then she's gone. The sky starts to clear.

---

Hours later, with their tent raised against the wind and its many terrors, Euley realizes that she's ready to approach Aeson. She hears home in the howling; she does not cower from the wolves. He stands by a spring, smoke wrapping around his ankles and his attention focused on a new pair of gloves. She doesn't wait for him to turn around. "Did you think I was going to let you die?" She circles him as he moves to match her gaze, closing the space between them and not allowing herself to be afraid of his gravitational pull. He can't stomach her. ( "Never would've thought you were weak enough to let a fucking goat do your dirty work." ) She rolls her eyes, reaching for his hand and removing one of the gloves.

His knuckles are kissed tenderly, fearless in the presence of such a dangerous tool — and she eases the tension with a quiet chuckle. "You're not trying to live up to what Twelve said, are you? You're not a drama queen." She pauses, placing the glove back on his hand and securing it more comfortably than he had it originally. There's tension in the air, an unjustified anger, and it's not that she actually cares. There's no love between them, no sleep lost over the thought of losing his trust, but Euley is nothing if not an honest woman. She'd never stab a man from the back. "And I don't want you to die." That isn't how their game works. "Not yet, Aeson."

Sighing, she tackles the accusation and places all her cards on the table. "Let's talk about what happened. No, I didn't notice where the goat was charging. And, no, you didn't need my help. Just look at you. What can't you face on your own?" A finger runs across the dried blood on his skin, resting on his lips and then suddenly they're inhaling the same air. She can feel the static. "If you think I'd let something take you away, then you're mistaken. I'm the only person who can steal you from me. Isn't that our rule? We live for the other and we die just the same." She kisses him, gentle and hungry all at once. A wolf wearing the skin of a fox, sly and quick and unable to be captured. She'll let him hold her.

Nothing else needs to be said. No remark of acceptance follows her explanation. He returns her embrace and they give in to their passion for one minute, two, three, four — until Hell is as cold as it is warm. The water around them is burning and the ground is freezing. It's okay. He knows her loyalty. The rift closes, though they're still as distant as ever, and the snarl of his features fades away to something softer. He's the boy with night terrors again, not the murderer, and this is not love. It's not to be confused with such a pure emotion. This is just the nature of a hound and a huntress. They're a team. To rage together is their calling. Come midnight, her limbs stay wrapped around his torso. Even after the nightmares leave him.

Even after she ignores all the warning signs.

---

Euley wakes that morning to find only Violet asleep in their tent, shrugging off the worried thought that they've been abandoned by Aeson and Isaac while they were sleeping. Her lost boys have always been a brooding sort, prone to sulking in dark corners and spending time alone with just themselves. The existential questions they ask their reflections don't concern her. The sun sets each night and still rises again come dawn. Euley exits their shelter and leaves her ally to rest, pulling her fur coat tighter around her form and focusing on the situation at hand. There are sounds in the distance, but no signs of her missing allies. She walks away to an isolated spring, perching on the stone that surrounds it and dipping her unclothed feet into the warm water.

She remains in a relaxed trance for a short span of minutes, until the crunch of snow just across from her resting place makes an approaching figure known. She scoffs, preparing to scold either Aeson or Isaac for being so theatrical and running off on their own without warning, but then she squints through all the mist that's rising in front of her vision. Blonde hair flies around a round face, too long and too fair to be either of her missing allies. Bruised skin peeks out from beneath a torn ski suit, far from rotten or severely damaged — but the creature's head droops to the side at an unnatural angle, arms hanging by its waist without any balance, and its shrieks tell Euley that this isn't a tribute. She's memorised all of her enemies in the arena. This one is a new threat.

Pillar Fray called herself deathless, once.

This is the genesis of a dying girl;
this is the revelation of a corpse.