‘Hello, Ice,’ they say.
She smiles, tips Nigh forwards to pat the rags that wrap Skinpainter’s head.
‘Hello, killer grossmonster,’ they reply.
Nigh climbs off Icecaller’s shoulders and onto Skinpainter with surprising speed, twining her hands in their robes. They glance over their shoulder to watch her with eyes brightened by shadow.
‘Did you defeat anyone today?’
Nigh makes a blindfold for her eyes and laughs madly.
Skinpainter hisses softly in amusement. ‘And did you help them after?’
Rags become bandages wound around. A solemn nod.
The man below Skinpainter’s fingers moans in pain. They push down slowly, steadily. Joints pop. Sockets are filled.
‘Good, good. We bind if we break, remember. Now, let me work.’
Gently, Skinpainter grabs Nigh by the scruff of her neck and sets her to one side. A moment passes as they straighten limbs, and salve bruises. Nigh watches, bright-eyed. Catching her gaze, Skinpainter reaches forwards, taking her head in their hands. Nigh’s jaw disappears into the cut of the broad, brown fingers which frame her face.
They twist her head towards the light, taking in her short shock of mountain-thistle hair, high cheekbones that catch the shadow, and a tongue that wiggles exploratorily.
‘No warrior marks on you yet.’ Their voice hangs in the wide air.
Behind them, feet beat on steel, the hall hot and noisy with harsh breaths.
‘Would you like a warrior’s mark, Nigh?’
She shakes her head, taps on their wrists, sketches a response. For a moment, Skinpainter remembers the last time they had talked only in touch, and shivers, before looking over their shoulder. ‘Ice? Translate?’
Icecaller hunkers down behind her sister, hands loose and easy on her shoulders.
Nigh turns, her lips grazing her sister’s earlobes, moving fast.
Skinpainter watches them. ‘Well?’
Icecaller smiles. ‘She wants a monster mark, Painter.’
Skinpainter hisses again, laughter bubbling in their chest andlets their thumb rise to stroke Nigh’s cheekbones. ‘You’re OK with that?’
Icecaller shrugs. ‘She’s her own snotty little person.’
Skinpainter’s eyes flash in the shadow of their hood. ‘So be it. Look at me, Nigh. Think of your monster. Think of its shape. Think of its fierceness. Think of its breath.’
Nigh hunkers down in her sister’s lap, wriggling furiously, sharp little hip bones stabbing into Icecaller’s thighs.
She grunts in pain. ‘Stop torturing me and look at Painter.’
For once, Nigh does as she’s told, turning her wide, dark eyes up to the hood crouched in front of her face.
‘Think of its breath,’ Skinpainter repeats.
Nigh holds their gaze and Icecaller, behind her, meets Skinpainter’s eyes for a moment. She feels the sorcerer’s breath grow slow and steady in the intervening space, watches the hairs slowly rise on their forearms as muscles dance beneath their inked skin. Watches their fingers trace steady, angular shapes on either side of her sister’s head.
Tucked between her legs, Nigh goes soft like a rabbit before a snake, her head lolling.
Suddenly, Icecaller feels the weight of her sister’s small body hard against her skin, as if an invisible hand was pushing them together.
