All expectations make her heart feel numb
More and more desecration pulled from her claws. She couldn’t help it now, not when she’d been immersed, her eyes barely even scanning a page before it was obliterated – nameless words and nameless facets and nameless authors with no credit for their adversarial cause. She worked while she spoke, and if the parchment was torn with a harsher decree, with a relish, with a savage, interloping wake, then she didn’t care, didn’t care, didn’t care. “The person who murdered my sister.” A personal fulfillment if there was ever going to be one – slashing them across the throat until they bled over fields, over grass, over stone; she was indifferent to the poetry and visuals. Just the motivation was enough.
“She gave me another chance,” she finally admitted, her eyes scanning the floor, with the crumpled notes, with the liturgies no longer in writing, no longer for anyone else’s eyes. “And many others.” Could the Old Gods have done that? Would they have bothered? Or were they so stuck in the past, that it wouldn’t have mattered? “It was safe, but not enough. Not for what we need to do.” Her eyes didn’t go to Ophelia – she’d let them take whatever they yearned or needed from that interloping, woven gesture. “Training is fun,” came with a distinct snicker, all fangs and debauchery.
“She gave me another chance,” she finally admitted, her eyes scanning the floor, with the crumpled notes, with the liturgies no longer in writing, no longer for anyone else’s eyes. “And many others.” Could the Old Gods have done that? Would they have bothered? Or were they so stuck in the past, that it wouldn’t have mattered? “It was safe, but not enough. Not for what we need to do.” Her eyes didn’t go to Ophelia – she’d let them take whatever they yearned or needed from that interloping, woven gesture. “Training is fun,” came with a distinct snicker, all fangs and debauchery.
MABEL
