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She looks at me a lot harder than I do her; she’s a girl, no curves, no perfume, just straight, gangly lines and tangles of cream hair. Its not until she flutters her silver eyes at me and prowls forward like she is more than the little girl she is that I bother giving her much more than my haughty “better than you” attitude – the previous stance only changing in the slightest to, “you really want a piece of this?”
Aureate gaze narrows, my crown rising on a muscular neck that arches, the dreaded knots of my mane sprawled across the supple bend, spilling down shoulders marked by war. I look down at her – barely, because for a child, she is freaking monumental in size – deciding that this, this is how Ashamin felt for trying to help me all those weeks ago in the midst of that blizzard.
My frown inlays itself into tissues that had previously been only slightly mocking, but helpful. The little wench is just that, a wench. I offer her no commentary in response to her absolutely unnecessary bitchiness other than watching her traipse about, queen of nothing in particular (though, I think she believes she is queen of me).
I don’t blame Ashamin for calling me into the swirling snow. No wonder, if his heart clenched as tightly as mine does, its teeth gnashing for her throat as she haughtily prances over to a rock, and pitches it at the bird. I snort when it misses, a sharp, harsh staccato that trails white mist through the wintery air that mocks her for even trying something so dumb. Idiot, I think, not bothering to reprimand her – what do I care if she kills it, and half of herself, as well? Besides, she seems quite confident that her absolutely moronic strategy will play out, seeing as I can’t fly and all.
Despite having essentially told me to fuck off a matter of moments before, her failure seems to inspire some desire in her to accept my offer. I have half of a mind to just show her my big, beautiful ass for all her questions – but they are, after all, questions about me, about my power.
I give her a smile, the devious sort of grin that makes the eyes twinkle with I know something you don’t know, whole face alive with the vibrant charm that had been my mother’s only saving grace.
"Let me show you," I answer, pivoting so that I am facing the dozing raccoon, hoping that she’s not such a dolt as to miss him once he starts moving, even if she can’t find him in the dappled shade of the overhead boughs, barring the afternoon light.
I am a white energy flying through the millions of tiny things that are the air. I am rippling through the muscles of the beast, arcing, a distant spark holding me fast to the unicorn that stares at me from below, having been suddenly awoken from my sleep. It is a strange feeling to go from fully awake to sleeping to awake again. The feet beneath me are deft and black, and they grip the bark with such skill that my energy is probably not white, but green. These feet scratch and skitter and rattle dead leaves from the branches, make snow drift lazily from its hold. There is a nest. A baby bird. The others are only eggs, and they are empty.
My eyes below watch the progression of the raccoon that is me, its swift scurry to the nest, where its black hands grab the small bird.
A sudden desire lunges through my energy, a desire to bite its head clean away, to drink the blood and feel the tremble of its heart against my tongue. The belly of the unicorn does a small flip and I manage to refrain, the white power of my crackling biding this oddly furry body down the rough bark, one paw tucked fast with a chick to its breast, the other three scrambling against the surface of the monolithic trunk for purchase.
The chick is abandoned by a screaming raccoon as I pull my magic, myself, back inward, the arc of the spark that is me snapping back into its rightful form with much less horrible force than it used to. Terrified, the striped creature runs into several trunks in its mad dash away from the horrible unicorns that had somehow magicked it out of the trees and to their hooves.
Vision still slightly hazy, the pull of power required to manipulate the raccoon so far leaving me feeling as if I’d just run up and down the tree a thousand times, without being winded or sweaty. Its just tiredness, bone deep weariness… but I will let this strange girl see none of it, instead looking to her with a smile of victory on my lips, her bird chirping with its ugly, pointed slit of a mouth on the ground.
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[O] I Warn You, I've Been Trained to Kill Since Birth
