The old wound keeps bleeding
The graveyard is cold. The water lapping at the edge, at the headstones slowly being consumed by the bayou. Two lit cigarettes and a handshake. Something a kin to his soul being sold for the power to change his fate.
Kremy’s bad hip was acting up, it woke him up like it did every year on this day. The reminder of the cane that met his hip when he decided to run. A burned brand, into his hip that his scales couldn’t heal. No amount of magic could take the edge off this pain.
Gid’s flames dulled to a low heat. A kin to his name, his heat that of coals of a fire mostly put out. He lay sprawled out, arm under Kremy’s head, other arm resting on his chest rising and falling with his chest, as he snored.
Kremy rolled himself over, head on his chest. The arm behind his head moving to hold him close. The heat spreading through him like the warmth could heal the suffering and at least for now it did.
