hemoswitch- the first time scoff figures out bawds true bloodcolor
You had never really thought about it. She wears violet, after all, and while you may feel deep in your bones this hemospectrum is wrong it’s still poor form to wear anything other than your hemocaste.
Her blood comes as a surprise, salty cold on your hands and the floor and her body. You stare down at her, hand pressed over the wound. She’s stronger than this, you know, you know, but the rage quickens in your blood. That anyone would lay a hand on her, perfect and royal her, let alone hurt her stains your vision red and makes your bones ache for the riot of culling.
She murmurs something you can’t quite hear, paps your face sweet and gentle. Her hand is slicked with her own life, it leaves a smear of fuchsia down your cheek. You catch her hand with your free one, relieved to feel the slow pulse of her life slowing under the hand you’ve got pressed to her thigh.
She’s made of iron and deep ocean currents, your moirail, in more ways than you ever could have imagined.
It’s only later, when you’re splattered teal and blue that you kneel to her, press your horns to the floor and bare the back of your neck. She laughs and pulls you up by a gentle hand on your horns, kisses you on each cheek, holds you in her arms and soothes your confusion away.
