”Gods are not kind,” she agrees. The water ripples, waves licking up the sand and churning foam. Citalá could watch it all day; deep blues, swirling, pulling and pushing out. So many passengers can exist in the realm of water, and she can, too. ”I need no Cisin, now.”
The softness of her voice is a contrast to her fangs that jut over her bottom lips, the narrowness of her eyes. If Cisin rejected her, she is right to reject him as well. She is the deity of her own story.
Trotting ahead, she grins, a flash of white against her dark head as she pulls close to the water.
“Fish here, yes,” she agrees. Greeting an old friend, she enters one limb at a time, the waves soaking up to her elbows. Her toes dredge up sand, turning the water dusky. She stills herself, steady as she waits in the cold waters for Benji. ”You must catch more than I do, yes?”
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