in tenebris est veritas.
Fear.
Some say animals are not complex enough for emotion, that they are ruled by instinct and incapable of sympathy. Some say the complexities of animal emotion are beyond human understanding, the shapes of their neurons neither simpler than nor similar to the experiences we share. But there is, at the very least, one sensation which can be shared between every mind in the world.
The swamp rat’s blind, milky eyes are wide with it. Its comrades fled through the splashing muck for it. And in that quiet night, beneath the twinkling terror of the stars above, Chaele’s hands shake with it.
They could not say why. Perhaps it is the darkness itself, pervasive and close in the faint light of the sliver of a crescent moon. Perhaps it is their own instinct, perceiving some hidden watcher in the bramble. Perhaps it is simply that ill-adapted sympathy that plagues them as they loom over the dying creature. Its claws scrabble at the wet dirt as it chokes on spit and blood, its spine twitching with the throes of a torturous death. It was a sloppy kill. They are not proud of it. But there is an easy enough solution.
Long, bony fingers protrude from their sleeve, reaching for the dying beast. An inky blackness drips down their wrist and coalesces between their fingers, then seeps over the sticky fur. There is a moment of suspense, of that prickly static of magic. And then the shadow is sucked abruptly upward again.
A tight sigh is loosed from the mouth behind the skull-mask. Their shoulders lift with a fresh invigoration. But the sympathy remains, like a disease, as they watch the creature’s face fall still.
Fear. And then, nothing.
Some say animals are not complex enough for emotion, that they are ruled by instinct and incapable of sympathy. Some say the complexities of animal emotion are beyond human understanding, the shapes of their neurons neither simpler than nor similar to the experiences we share. But there is, at the very least, one sensation which can be shared between every mind in the world.
The swamp rat’s blind, milky eyes are wide with it. Its comrades fled through the splashing muck for it. And in that quiet night, beneath the twinkling terror of the stars above, Chaele’s hands shake with it.
They could not say why. Perhaps it is the darkness itself, pervasive and close in the faint light of the sliver of a crescent moon. Perhaps it is their own instinct, perceiving some hidden watcher in the bramble. Perhaps it is simply that ill-adapted sympathy that plagues them as they loom over the dying creature. Its claws scrabble at the wet dirt as it chokes on spit and blood, its spine twitching with the throes of a torturous death. It was a sloppy kill. They are not proud of it. But there is an easy enough solution.
Long, bony fingers protrude from their sleeve, reaching for the dying beast. An inky blackness drips down their wrist and coalesces between their fingers, then seeps over the sticky fur. There is a moment of suspense, of that prickly static of magic. And then the shadow is sucked abruptly upward again.
A tight sigh is loosed from the mouth behind the skull-mask. Their shoulders lift with a fresh invigoration. But the sympathy remains, like a disease, as they watch the creature’s face fall still.
Fear. And then, nothing.
