by Danko

He watches her through a fire that belongs to other men - darker men — eyes cut silvery, wet through the silt slashed and dried grey across his hollow face. The way she moves. The way firelight radiates fluid warmth off her skin but never catches hold in her soul the way it does in her smile.

The way she watches him, so mirthfully aware

that in a war like this one, it's the little things that matter most. Rigor mortis loosing its grip to the noonday sun. Desperation in a drowning man's face. Sticky leaves and sucking mud.

She's dangerous.

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