11-15-2013, 04:49 PM
The call comes while Melantha is closing. She feels a rush of nausea, bending forward as though gale wind is lashing her back. Her pupils narrow to pin-pricks, breath catching in her throat as she feels herself being pulled relentlessly, ruthlessly towards the south. Her throat is dry when one of her coworkers sees how pale she's gotten and helps her sit down. She tries to finish closing after a drink of water and a moment to absorb a sudden, pounding headache, but they send her home.
At the tiny house on its rugged wheels, Melantha finds Erich and Charlotte there. They can tell her what is going on. They can understand in a way she can't. They can explain to her, as they all clamber into Erich's truck, what they are going to witness.
What they are going to be a part of.
--
What she's heard, and what she's been told, have made Melantha wary of the cities she used to blend so easily into. She likes Evergreen. It is far away from everything, everyone, it is small and generally quiet and she feels herself normalizing slowly, discovering herself gradually in the most mundane of rhythms: waking and sleeping, working and praying, eating and reading.
When punishment is pronounced upon Hunter of Peace, Melantha understands: he did what he could, but he let rank and file and order and ease take over where instinct should have told him that what they were doing was not enough, that it was time to betray his sept leader and tell others of what was beneath them. He did fail, and his punishment suits that failure. She sees it as mercy. She understands that a for a lunar year, he will be lonely and he will be discomfited and he will suffer, and he will also be cleansed, renewed, and made a sharper wolf for it.
To this, Melantha bears witness with stillness and faith.
--
She is startled by the punishment given to Retribution's Fist, however. She blinks, turning to look at Erich and Charlotte, taking in their reactions before she looks back. She doesn't see how being shunned helps anyone. She doesn't get how having everyone turn their back and say that he doesn't exist for a while has anything to do with him answering for his failure.
But she turns with the rest, even though her brow is furrowed and her eyes downcast. She cannot witness the way Retribution's Fist leaves, or the fact that his mate turns from him also. She feels the beginnings of discomfort, seeds planted in confusion.
They all feel it, when he is gone. Even though they aren't supposed to acknowledge he was ever there.
--
The rage of the Ritemaster of Forgotten Questions makes Melantha shrink back a bit. She keeps looking at her packmates, but she doesn't speak, not even in their thoughts. She wasn't there when he said he'd tear out their throats if the leaders of Cold Crescent were ever brought before him, but she wasn't surprised to hear it. She has nothing to say when the stone of scorn is passed among the gathered people; she doesn't know Forge, she doesn't know what lambasting her for an hour will do for anyone, or shaming her with a warped voice.
The only thing that makes sense to her is the addition: that she will teach. That she will humble herself, that she will give and give and give with nothing taken in return until she can be honored again, instead of scorned.
Melantha takes a breath after that. She shivers.
--
And she does not watch what happens to Warning Threshold. The sight of the box fills her with such dread, such unwholesome terror, that Melantha just sinks backward, nauseated again, her spine tightening.
She goes into the old homestead, where a few of the elderly and most of the children are, where the mate of Retribution's Fist is sitting with her eyes turned to the hearth, her eyes cold.
Melantha sits down wherever she can, wrapped in her coat, and tries not to hear the words that follow the former Warder's punishment. She doesn't really want to see it, or think about it. It's the antithesis of Hunter of Peace's punishment, she thinks.
And coldly, despite herself,
she wonders why they did not kill him.
--
Melantha comes toward the door of Persse Place again when Curved Sky begins telling her tale. She seems so... dead inside, recounting it. She doesn't seem whole anymore. She listens, and she feels sickened by what she hears, and there is nothing at the end to take that away. There's no apology that would abate it. There's not enough understanding in the world to forgive such pride that leads to such loss.
The rite begins, and Melantha is standing with Erich and Charlotte again, and despite the layers of outerwear she has on, her skin begins to feel cold and clammy. She tenses as the stone hits the Ritemaster's palm, as the blood drenches Curved Sky's face. Her breathing turns a bit shallow, steaming in the night air. A few standing nearby see more than hear Melantha give a little shriek, a yelp of fright, as the Ritemaster lets out that undulating howl. For her part, Melantha sees more than hears the way that Curved Sky begs, and sobs, and Melantha starts crying.
That sound, rippling throughout the septs, only makes her cry harder. For the dead. For the living. For this. She hunches her shoulders, covering her eyes with her fists, sobbing into the heels of her gloves. Everything around her shudders with the chaos and madness of that shared grief, and then Erich is saying stop it, stop it, STOP IT. He's shouting, but much of it is lost except to those nearest him in this mass of bodies, much of it is lost under the howl and then
the screams.
Melantha is scared when he rushes forward, because she's veritably surrounded by werewolves. She shifts closer to Charlotte, instinctively, looking up with her tear-stained face. She catches a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of gleaming silver spiking upward into that woman's body and chokes on a horrified gasp. She feels every pulse of Erich's anger and no no no no no until he snaps, until he's trying to get through the crowd to the condemned, until other garou are handily and instantly grabbing him, yanking him back, slamming him to the earth and holding him down. She feels it, with a jerk that goes through her entire body, when the tenuous connection between their spirits is temporarily severed by his frenzy, as though the spirits do not dare let such a thing spread through the minds of packmates when one of them falters.
No one said a damn thing to her about looking or not looking or the importance of either. She doesn't think it matters if two of them or twenty of them watch what happens to Curved Sky. Maybe it's a mercy that Erich distracts Melantha enough that she just hunches over Charlotte's arm, crying into her skin and clothing, overcome. There is really no making sense of it. There is really no understanding it.
Just like any death.
--
When she can, and this is while Curved Sky is still running, still dying, still bleeding, Melantha leaves Charlotte's shoulder and goes picking her way through the garou to find where Erich is flopped unconscious in the dirt. She sits on the ground next to him and puts her ear on his chest. She knows he's alive, but it helps to hear his heartbeat and feel the swell and release of his breath. She doesn't have to worry about things like what the garou think of her: whether she is honorable or craven, brave or cowardly, wise or silly. She doesn't have to worry about it, and she might not even if she should, so she curls up next to the cliath who tried to interrupt a rite and just sits with him until he comes to.
When he comes to, he curls up in a ball and covers his face and cries. Melantha scoots down by him, curls around him, and puts her arms and her head over his side, laying her warmth and her guardianship atop him, where -- if we're telling the truth -- he needs it the least.
And she cries with him.
At the tiny house on its rugged wheels, Melantha finds Erich and Charlotte there. They can tell her what is going on. They can understand in a way she can't. They can explain to her, as they all clamber into Erich's truck, what they are going to witness.
What they are going to be a part of.
--
What she's heard, and what she's been told, have made Melantha wary of the cities she used to blend so easily into. She likes Evergreen. It is far away from everything, everyone, it is small and generally quiet and she feels herself normalizing slowly, discovering herself gradually in the most mundane of rhythms: waking and sleeping, working and praying, eating and reading.
When punishment is pronounced upon Hunter of Peace, Melantha understands: he did what he could, but he let rank and file and order and ease take over where instinct should have told him that what they were doing was not enough, that it was time to betray his sept leader and tell others of what was beneath them. He did fail, and his punishment suits that failure. She sees it as mercy. She understands that a for a lunar year, he will be lonely and he will be discomfited and he will suffer, and he will also be cleansed, renewed, and made a sharper wolf for it.
To this, Melantha bears witness with stillness and faith.
--
She is startled by the punishment given to Retribution's Fist, however. She blinks, turning to look at Erich and Charlotte, taking in their reactions before she looks back. She doesn't see how being shunned helps anyone. She doesn't get how having everyone turn their back and say that he doesn't exist for a while has anything to do with him answering for his failure.
But she turns with the rest, even though her brow is furrowed and her eyes downcast. She cannot witness the way Retribution's Fist leaves, or the fact that his mate turns from him also. She feels the beginnings of discomfort, seeds planted in confusion.
They all feel it, when he is gone. Even though they aren't supposed to acknowledge he was ever there.
--
The rage of the Ritemaster of Forgotten Questions makes Melantha shrink back a bit. She keeps looking at her packmates, but she doesn't speak, not even in their thoughts. She wasn't there when he said he'd tear out their throats if the leaders of Cold Crescent were ever brought before him, but she wasn't surprised to hear it. She has nothing to say when the stone of scorn is passed among the gathered people; she doesn't know Forge, she doesn't know what lambasting her for an hour will do for anyone, or shaming her with a warped voice.
The only thing that makes sense to her is the addition: that she will teach. That she will humble herself, that she will give and give and give with nothing taken in return until she can be honored again, instead of scorned.
Melantha takes a breath after that. She shivers.
--
And she does not watch what happens to Warning Threshold. The sight of the box fills her with such dread, such unwholesome terror, that Melantha just sinks backward, nauseated again, her spine tightening.
She goes into the old homestead, where a few of the elderly and most of the children are, where the mate of Retribution's Fist is sitting with her eyes turned to the hearth, her eyes cold.
Melantha sits down wherever she can, wrapped in her coat, and tries not to hear the words that follow the former Warder's punishment. She doesn't really want to see it, or think about it. It's the antithesis of Hunter of Peace's punishment, she thinks.
And coldly, despite herself,
she wonders why they did not kill him.
--
Melantha comes toward the door of Persse Place again when Curved Sky begins telling her tale. She seems so... dead inside, recounting it. She doesn't seem whole anymore. She listens, and she feels sickened by what she hears, and there is nothing at the end to take that away. There's no apology that would abate it. There's not enough understanding in the world to forgive such pride that leads to such loss.
The rite begins, and Melantha is standing with Erich and Charlotte again, and despite the layers of outerwear she has on, her skin begins to feel cold and clammy. She tenses as the stone hits the Ritemaster's palm, as the blood drenches Curved Sky's face. Her breathing turns a bit shallow, steaming in the night air. A few standing nearby see more than hear Melantha give a little shriek, a yelp of fright, as the Ritemaster lets out that undulating howl. For her part, Melantha sees more than hears the way that Curved Sky begs, and sobs, and Melantha starts crying.
That sound, rippling throughout the septs, only makes her cry harder. For the dead. For the living. For this. She hunches her shoulders, covering her eyes with her fists, sobbing into the heels of her gloves. Everything around her shudders with the chaos and madness of that shared grief, and then Erich is saying stop it, stop it, STOP IT. He's shouting, but much of it is lost except to those nearest him in this mass of bodies, much of it is lost under the howl and then
the screams.
Melantha is scared when he rushes forward, because she's veritably surrounded by werewolves. She shifts closer to Charlotte, instinctively, looking up with her tear-stained face. She catches a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of gleaming silver spiking upward into that woman's body and chokes on a horrified gasp. She feels every pulse of Erich's anger and no no no no no until he snaps, until he's trying to get through the crowd to the condemned, until other garou are handily and instantly grabbing him, yanking him back, slamming him to the earth and holding him down. She feels it, with a jerk that goes through her entire body, when the tenuous connection between their spirits is temporarily severed by his frenzy, as though the spirits do not dare let such a thing spread through the minds of packmates when one of them falters.
No one said a damn thing to her about looking or not looking or the importance of either. She doesn't think it matters if two of them or twenty of them watch what happens to Curved Sky. Maybe it's a mercy that Erich distracts Melantha enough that she just hunches over Charlotte's arm, crying into her skin and clothing, overcome. There is really no making sense of it. There is really no understanding it.
Just like any death.
--
When she can, and this is while Curved Sky is still running, still dying, still bleeding, Melantha leaves Charlotte's shoulder and goes picking her way through the garou to find where Erich is flopped unconscious in the dirt. She sits on the ground next to him and puts her ear on his chest. She knows he's alive, but it helps to hear his heartbeat and feel the swell and release of his breath. She doesn't have to worry about things like what the garou think of her: whether she is honorable or craven, brave or cowardly, wise or silly. She doesn't have to worry about it, and she might not even if she should, so she curls up next to the cliath who tried to interrupt a rite and just sits with him until he comes to.
When he comes to, he curls up in a ball and covers his face and cries. Melantha scoots down by him, curls around him, and puts her arms and her head over his side, laying her warmth and her guardianship atop him, where -- if we're telling the truth -- he needs it the least.
And she cries with him.
my whole life is thunder.