( Revulsion is an indrawn breath, a moment of sharp, migraine-searing light in the comfort of dark and slate. He feels it, like lightning. Crepuscular. Spreading. Frosting his flesh and his skin and weighing down his tongue.

Strange, to think he is accused of the same indifference that finds him entirely, intrinsically allergic. That there is a part of him that cannot withstand the cruel, clawing reach of his own supposed nature.

In her, it's a leathered thing, tough and weary. But skins thin and fissure and break, and what will she be left with? Only this: his eyes, dark, watchful and weighing, when he turns pointedly on his heel to — look at her. Let it be known she is seen. )

Nor you. ( Not all dead things need live in carts. )