#Cayin: 8I

[yeleltaan]

“Flesh.”

Down to her haunches, poised as a beartrap, the assassin slips a portion of dried meat past her lips, and chews thoughtfully before speaking again.

“Hunger, you possess. I know this for certain; you hunt for knowledge to feed upon, after all. You collect facts. You devour stories. But, and you’ll forgive the directness, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen your appetite sway towards flesh. You don’t stare at naked shoulder blades, your throat doesn’t parch at a bared thigh… I don't recall ever hearing you comment on the beauty of all that is bodily, as a matter of fact. I’m curious: is it just because the human form is unappealing to you, blood of dragons? Or the act itself simply not on the list of your desires? I do not judge.”

She angles her wrist in his direction.

“Dried meat?”

Before all else she utters the word, and as is the case every time Heysel presents him with another topic, Cayin puts his reflections aside to focus on what she may share. She imbues his interest in learning, something he would have deemed wholly unremarkable, with a lyricism that feeds the pride- but even with this in mind the mention of appetite, hunger and flesh briefly mislead him into a literal interpretation, one that would have swiftly led to confusion if she didn’t chose to elaborate. She does, and as the true meaning of her inquiry sets in, his gaze begins to lower following an invisible path to the grass at his side. Verdant strands are caught between his fingers as the latter squeeze and slide along their rising shape. An inhale signals for his response, but all air in his lungs fails to find the words to carry it in time, and so he only breathes out again, deep in the thought.

Think before you speak, one of those small wisdoms he tries to incorporate into his habits. But for some reason this time the deafening silence of his indecision rings his ears with a strange discomfort. His hands move to settle on his robe again, grasping and folding handfuls of it while his arms remain crossed loosely over his lap. Quiet breeds expectation, and today it is unwelcome, which is why he opts to begin prematurely, like one walks into the blinding mist hoping each step will reveal enough to take the next.

“…It’s not. I don’t dislike it.” It appeared strange to him once, but then so did the trees, the rivers and rocks and castles, sands, fields, clouds and even lights, nearly every piece of the world you could fathom, for it was new, and so were the eyes that looked upon them. In time it all fit into place more comfortably, including the physique of man and its many derivatives.  Some such sights he’s revisited through his memories, others he’s built solely from the foundation of an artist’s depiction. Harmonic, grotesque, balanced in its small asymmetries, each piece presumably there for a purpose. Worth picturing again sometime, maybe.

But that’s not what he feels when he sees them up close. Because in the truth of the moment, the first thing he catches is an absence of fur, or at least any dense enough to impede the path of his teeth where it matters. Then, an absence of scales- instead the thin, easily pierced skin that wraps around fat, muscle and cartilage. Shapes alluding to the bones within, connected by tendons, guarding only some of their organs. Everywhere, at every turn, his eyes look first to survival.

The same observations must come naturally to her, a master of her craft. Surely she knows these connections intimately by now, how to undo them without waste, how to bring about the collapse of the whole human structure, at times without even the need to sever. Somehow, it doesn’t seem to him like that’s stopped her from retaining a different paradigm of appreciation for it. Not that he’s ever witnessed the signs of it on her face.

 “It’s just… there’s much else to stare at. Much to look out for.” Things he truly needs for himself, and those he needs to keep away. Those that may make a difference when he’s in need of taking something else. “…I don’t know.”

When she offers the meal right in front of him, it all seems so much more obvious. Two clawed fingertips hook through the given meat, and without a second thought he bites a chunk from it. His jaw munches on its own, and it tastes good. And it is a pleasure that seems so much easier to make happen, than to find someone pleasing and willing to sate you in a safe place. A simple delight that comes in the form of a need that sustains him so vitally, of course he would be hungry for this.

And still, throughout all that chewing his head lingers in more of those stories he’s read. Upon swallowing, his eyes lift to hers to give another inquiry in return, as is their custom.

“…Would you say it’s something worth hungering for?”