06-21-2013, 09:30 PM
They sleep in packs, warm fur against warm flesh. They come and embrace her, those that return from their own journeys or hunting trips. She whispers in the firelight-flickering dark to a pair of glittering eyes and calloused, gentle hands that she doesn't want to, and the hands instantly still where they are, at the moment, caressing her waist. Less instantly, they draw back into the darkness, slowly as one backs away from a tensed animal. There's not a question of why, there's no need to be told okay as though there's a chance it wouldn't be okay, no intimation of obligation to an explanation. The only question is a soft request to hold her, and to this Melantha smiles in the dark and tells the eyes and the hands and the familiar scent yes.
And she is held. And she thinks of how different these arms are from Charlotte's delicate, thin, pale ones. She thinks of how absurd it is that when she curls up in pajamas next to Charlotte she feels like the one who needs to protect, the one who should embrace and keep warm, keep safe. She thinks of how absurd it is, and more than a little heartbreaking, that she has known some of these women for her entire life, but it's Charlotte with whom she can really be herself.
Her eyes close. She hugs her arms to her chest where she curls up, forearms in front of her face, comforted by the leather and the clay bead where they touch her cheek.
--
Like all people who live primitively, they fill their days with work. Hunting is not a sport here. Offal and organs are not treats to be thrown to greedy wolves. Everything and everyone finds a use. Everything that is done is done out of necessity. There is no luxury. There is no ease, and in a strange way, it's therapeutic.
Melantha, thinking now that she will no longer go seduce the sorts of men she used to seduce, allows callouses to grow on her palms. She winces more than the other women and sometimes they smirk and sometimes they just watch, mindful, because they are curious to see if she will work til she blisters, til she bleeds, or if she will take breaks. Some judge. Some do not.
There is no one single mentality here. There is strength, and there is respect, and there is dedication here; there is endurance. Life is full of pains great and small, and harsh winds and sharp rocks. What good is there to be done by weeping? What good is it to waste pity on yourself when you are so strong, and so blessed, that you can survive these things so easily? Better to spend your compassion on others, not as strong, not as blessed, not as aware.
The ends of her hair split. Her nails chip and she cuts them low. There is no wax; you shave with knives or not at all. Some scrape their scalps free of hair; few bother with anything else. Her skin's warm tones darken to burnished gold. Her lips are dry, her eyes see better in the dark, she gets used to feeling some trace of hunger in her belly most of the time. Sometimes at night, wolves come and lay beside her, in one form or another, as though the smell of her and the feel of her by their side or in their arms is comforting after whatever rite they have undergone, whatever hunt or battle that nearly took their lives. It has been so for generations: the garou come to the kin for succor. Melantha thinks of tribes where it is not so, where seeking succor is damned or kin are taught to be weak, and she pities them.
She thinks of Erich and Charlotte, who -- if they are on the road -- have no kin to care for them, and comfort them, and sleep beside them. She thinks of Erich, forbidden from taking that succor from his own blood kin. She thinks of Charlotte, and of Fangs, and of all the highborn rules that prevent such blatant want, such obvious need. She does not pity them. But she thinks of them, and worries a little for them, and
misses them, mostly.
--
Time goes by. A full moon swells and recedes. Celia de Luca is forgotten by the world and remembered only by the people whose lives she ruined. He resigned. She wonders if there are still Furies there, and kin of Furies, as tabloid reporters and photographers and so on, driving him slowly to the brink. She wonders when the last time was that any of their number thought of trying to heal these people, influence them for good, change their minds. She wonders if it would be a whole new order, not unlike the sort she has belonged to since she was a true maiden. The hand that heals and the hand that wounds.
Melantha cuts some of the rare thread brought up from the general store half a day's trip away from here with a sharp snap and tug of her teeth. The sleeves of the shirt are set aside for later; when the weather grows cool again she'll sew them back onto the tunic.
After all, she thinks, if Fenrir-born, Shadow Lord Erich could learn to think twice about some of his own sexist assumptions, couldn't some other men be taught similarly? Not the ones who are too far gone. They need to be punished. They need to be ruined. Some of them need to die.
But, Melantha considers, putting her needle away in a small box of precious things that shouldn't be lost, it's worth a try.
--
"Have you thought about what you want to do?" Damaris asks, crouching by the fire outside of her shelter, stirring the pot of stew that rests on it. Like Melantha, she wears her hair long. They have tied that long dark hair of theirs up on their heads in knots, keep it off their faces and out of the fire with strips of cloth over their brows, tied at the napes of their necks. They are messy and their feet dirty, but their hands are clean.
"Some," Melantha answers, eating flat bread made in a clay oven. It is still hot. She talks with her mouth full, and no one looks at her askance. She looks at her hands, tearing the bread, and not at her mentor, her mother-figure, her trainer, who was once also a whore like Melantha, and for similar reasons. There's a young girl sharing that tiny shelter with them now. She's started to bleed and she has that anger in her, that punishing sword. It remains to be seen if that anger is something that will last long enough to be tempered into a weapon. The girl isn't here right now, though. She's been sent to gather firewood for her mentor.
"You know, you could help me with her," and she means the girl, untested and untaught so far. "The world changes, even if men don't. You could teach her a great deal."
Melantha glances the way that the girl walked some time ago, tears another strip of bread and devours it. She shrugs. "It hasn't changed so much."
Damaris scoffs. "How would you know? You weren't even born when I finished my work."
Her mouth twists into a fond smirk. She chews her bread and there is silence between them for a while. They hear a clatter of wood being dropped and glance up, listening for a scream or wail of pain or terror in the dark. There's only some soft sobbing, defeated-sounding, frustrated. Damaris and Melantha both return their attention to their work and their conversation.
"Everyone here has a purpose," Damaris tells her, quiet but not soft.
Melantha does not say I know. Of course she knows. She watches the fire, and chews her bread.
And she is held. And she thinks of how different these arms are from Charlotte's delicate, thin, pale ones. She thinks of how absurd it is that when she curls up in pajamas next to Charlotte she feels like the one who needs to protect, the one who should embrace and keep warm, keep safe. She thinks of how absurd it is, and more than a little heartbreaking, that she has known some of these women for her entire life, but it's Charlotte with whom she can really be herself.
Her eyes close. She hugs her arms to her chest where she curls up, forearms in front of her face, comforted by the leather and the clay bead where they touch her cheek.
--
Like all people who live primitively, they fill their days with work. Hunting is not a sport here. Offal and organs are not treats to be thrown to greedy wolves. Everything and everyone finds a use. Everything that is done is done out of necessity. There is no luxury. There is no ease, and in a strange way, it's therapeutic.
Melantha, thinking now that she will no longer go seduce the sorts of men she used to seduce, allows callouses to grow on her palms. She winces more than the other women and sometimes they smirk and sometimes they just watch, mindful, because they are curious to see if she will work til she blisters, til she bleeds, or if she will take breaks. Some judge. Some do not.
There is no one single mentality here. There is strength, and there is respect, and there is dedication here; there is endurance. Life is full of pains great and small, and harsh winds and sharp rocks. What good is there to be done by weeping? What good is it to waste pity on yourself when you are so strong, and so blessed, that you can survive these things so easily? Better to spend your compassion on others, not as strong, not as blessed, not as aware.
The ends of her hair split. Her nails chip and she cuts them low. There is no wax; you shave with knives or not at all. Some scrape their scalps free of hair; few bother with anything else. Her skin's warm tones darken to burnished gold. Her lips are dry, her eyes see better in the dark, she gets used to feeling some trace of hunger in her belly most of the time. Sometimes at night, wolves come and lay beside her, in one form or another, as though the smell of her and the feel of her by their side or in their arms is comforting after whatever rite they have undergone, whatever hunt or battle that nearly took their lives. It has been so for generations: the garou come to the kin for succor. Melantha thinks of tribes where it is not so, where seeking succor is damned or kin are taught to be weak, and she pities them.
She thinks of Erich and Charlotte, who -- if they are on the road -- have no kin to care for them, and comfort them, and sleep beside them. She thinks of Erich, forbidden from taking that succor from his own blood kin. She thinks of Charlotte, and of Fangs, and of all the highborn rules that prevent such blatant want, such obvious need. She does not pity them. But she thinks of them, and worries a little for them, and
misses them, mostly.
--
Time goes by. A full moon swells and recedes. Celia de Luca is forgotten by the world and remembered only by the people whose lives she ruined. He resigned. She wonders if there are still Furies there, and kin of Furies, as tabloid reporters and photographers and so on, driving him slowly to the brink. She wonders when the last time was that any of their number thought of trying to heal these people, influence them for good, change their minds. She wonders if it would be a whole new order, not unlike the sort she has belonged to since she was a true maiden. The hand that heals and the hand that wounds.
Melantha cuts some of the rare thread brought up from the general store half a day's trip away from here with a sharp snap and tug of her teeth. The sleeves of the shirt are set aside for later; when the weather grows cool again she'll sew them back onto the tunic.
After all, she thinks, if Fenrir-born, Shadow Lord Erich could learn to think twice about some of his own sexist assumptions, couldn't some other men be taught similarly? Not the ones who are too far gone. They need to be punished. They need to be ruined. Some of them need to die.
But, Melantha considers, putting her needle away in a small box of precious things that shouldn't be lost, it's worth a try.
--
"Have you thought about what you want to do?" Damaris asks, crouching by the fire outside of her shelter, stirring the pot of stew that rests on it. Like Melantha, she wears her hair long. They have tied that long dark hair of theirs up on their heads in knots, keep it off their faces and out of the fire with strips of cloth over their brows, tied at the napes of their necks. They are messy and their feet dirty, but their hands are clean.
"Some," Melantha answers, eating flat bread made in a clay oven. It is still hot. She talks with her mouth full, and no one looks at her askance. She looks at her hands, tearing the bread, and not at her mentor, her mother-figure, her trainer, who was once also a whore like Melantha, and for similar reasons. There's a young girl sharing that tiny shelter with them now. She's started to bleed and she has that anger in her, that punishing sword. It remains to be seen if that anger is something that will last long enough to be tempered into a weapon. The girl isn't here right now, though. She's been sent to gather firewood for her mentor.
"You know, you could help me with her," and she means the girl, untested and untaught so far. "The world changes, even if men don't. You could teach her a great deal."
Melantha glances the way that the girl walked some time ago, tears another strip of bread and devours it. She shrugs. "It hasn't changed so much."
Damaris scoffs. "How would you know? You weren't even born when I finished my work."
Her mouth twists into a fond smirk. She chews her bread and there is silence between them for a while. They hear a clatter of wood being dropped and glance up, listening for a scream or wail of pain or terror in the dark. There's only some soft sobbing, defeated-sounding, frustrated. Damaris and Melantha both return their attention to their work and their conversation.
"Everyone here has a purpose," Damaris tells her, quiet but not soft.
Melantha does not say I know. Of course she knows. She watches the fire, and chews her bread.
my whole life is thunder.