Kelp

They walk on the edge of the surf together. Hands tight.

“I hafta go soon.”

“Don’t.” 

“I hafta.” 

“I don’t want you to.”

“Warlord does. You’re worms.”

“I’m not worms.”

“Are to him.”

They slip on washed-up kelp, and shy around the bloated carcasses of landing troops. She prods one with her spear. The gas whistles out of his stomach. Sea creatures left tracks in the night, coming to feast. She thinks.

“He’s a bully.”

“He’s a hero.”

“Nah.”

“You haven’t seen’m. Tall.”

“Tall’s not a hero. They’ll do this to you.” She prods another corpse.

“Yeah. They might.”