Wapun Meadow thus always to tyrants

she looked at him squint-eyed from a different angle, searching the secret places behind his eyes. 

the boy from the riverside? he’d slapped her with a dead bird, the rat bastard! phaedra felt her gorge rise recalling it.

ah, but no— that boy had indelible fretfulness of spirit. different eyes, and more than just the color. but a wisp of deja vu nonetheless rose as smoke up the banks of her memory. she retired a step as though to retreat from his ivy-clinging gaze; his obvious bewilderment felt like a near accusation.

some latent memory, fluttering; insect wings beating against warm skin. she blinked uncertainly at val. 

what made her unsure, even though she was certain they’d never met! 

…was she certain? 

certain that she’d never heard his name before: without question.

“nope,” she decided dismissively, trotting away from him to linger at the mouth of the cave again. her stare hunted after interesting forms in the dark. only a dank emptiness stared back. 

“i’m phaedra. shall we investigate, val?” she stepped halfway across the ingress and looked back to the dusky boy with mischief written on her face.