07-16-2013, 12:58 PM
Raspberry Sky is staring at him with eyes dark by nature, darker still by circumstance. The sun outside is shining through the great glass walls of the building, and they do cast light on her, but none of that light seems to touch her eyes. He starts to kneel down, sniffing at her, and she knows from the day she kept him from crossing the line from life to a burnt-out death that he was not born as she was, in the same form as she was.
As her sister was.
He asks to clean her hands and feet, and he calls her sister, and this is where he sees the first flickers and hints of emotion. Or not emotion. Rage. It grew that night on the road by the little dark lake, amidst the green fire and scent of gunsmoke, and it has been tainting everything around her for the last month, even making spirits who once cozied up to her skitter further away. It spikes when he asks to clean her hands and feet, and it howls around her like a wind when he calls her sister.
But her eyes are numb.
And then he talks of cleaning her bones, picking them clean like the physical children of their tribe's totem, and that corona of grieving Rage very nearly translates into the sort of action it always, always does in their kind. Put bluntly, Raspberry Sky nearly attacks him. Nearly.
Instead, she lowers herself to the ground in a seemingly effortless crouch. She does not give him her hand to touch, and does not touch him, but she is close to vibrating with fury. And with pain. She looks him in the eyes, and he is not mistaken if he sees glimmers of challenge there. Or maybe just anger.
Her voice is soft, though. If a bit flat.
"You want to dig up Cece's body," she says back to him, steady as a drum. "You want to take her out of the grave where we put the pieces that the Beloved Horror left of her. And clean off the flesh, and the parts of her they chewed on, to get one of her bones. And you want to hold it up before the septs, break it open while our people argue with each other, and then pick it clean."
She's not asking him. She's repeating to him what she hears, just in case she's mistaken somewhere. Just in case he means something else. As though he could mean anything else. Raspberry Sky is staring at him, all but staring him down, but she pauses for only a moment. He knows the answer already. He's likely known since he felt that first spark of rage crackling around her.
"She wasn't your sister," Raspberry Sky says, her voice showing emotion, real emotion, for the first time. It grates with restraint, and rasps with grief. "Not like she was mine. You want to desecrate her grave and mutilate her body, and you call that honoring her."
Her head gives a single, tremoring shake. It hardly registers as a communication. Her knees unbend; she rises back to her full height, though it isn't much. "You should go. And I'd better not see you skulking around the graves looking to scavenge our dead for their parts."
As her sister was.
He asks to clean her hands and feet, and he calls her sister, and this is where he sees the first flickers and hints of emotion. Or not emotion. Rage. It grew that night on the road by the little dark lake, amidst the green fire and scent of gunsmoke, and it has been tainting everything around her for the last month, even making spirits who once cozied up to her skitter further away. It spikes when he asks to clean her hands and feet, and it howls around her like a wind when he calls her sister.
But her eyes are numb.
And then he talks of cleaning her bones, picking them clean like the physical children of their tribe's totem, and that corona of grieving Rage very nearly translates into the sort of action it always, always does in their kind. Put bluntly, Raspberry Sky nearly attacks him. Nearly.
Instead, she lowers herself to the ground in a seemingly effortless crouch. She does not give him her hand to touch, and does not touch him, but she is close to vibrating with fury. And with pain. She looks him in the eyes, and he is not mistaken if he sees glimmers of challenge there. Or maybe just anger.
Her voice is soft, though. If a bit flat.
"You want to dig up Cece's body," she says back to him, steady as a drum. "You want to take her out of the grave where we put the pieces that the Beloved Horror left of her. And clean off the flesh, and the parts of her they chewed on, to get one of her bones. And you want to hold it up before the septs, break it open while our people argue with each other, and then pick it clean."
She's not asking him. She's repeating to him what she hears, just in case she's mistaken somewhere. Just in case he means something else. As though he could mean anything else. Raspberry Sky is staring at him, all but staring him down, but she pauses for only a moment. He knows the answer already. He's likely known since he felt that first spark of rage crackling around her.
"She wasn't your sister," Raspberry Sky says, her voice showing emotion, real emotion, for the first time. It grates with restraint, and rasps with grief. "Not like she was mine. You want to desecrate her grave and mutilate her body, and you call that honoring her."
Her head gives a single, tremoring shake. It hardly registers as a communication. Her knees unbend; she rises back to her full height, though it isn't much. "You should go. And I'd better not see you skulking around the graves looking to scavenge our dead for their parts."
my whole life is thunder.