in tenebris est veritas.
She twists the feather by its stalk between two fingers, feeling the soft blade of its vane in her opposite palm. Her mind races with ideas of what to do with it, but Remi’s assurance rings between the thoughts until they are quieted. She tucks the feather deep into her pack, saving it.
Then he speaks of promises, and the huff that follows takes the shape of a smile. Her familiarity with the demi-gods has extended about as far as their names, content as she has been in the ignorance of her own small, savage world. But she finds herself more fond of their strangely familiar manner than she had expected to be-- their honesty, like one’s nudity, is thinly veiled. “No promise then,” she agrees with a nod, then turns toward Ronin and his suggestion.
“I think I will,” she says suddenly, sooner than even she seemed to expect to. Her cloak is already shed, after all, the scuff marks in the grass prepared for her launch. She drops her bag and, before she can convince herself not to again, breaks for the obsidian bowl.
And then she is on the other side, with only heat and adrenaline in her recent memory. Her beating heart burns in her chest, her arms are flush with sweat and sincerity, and she can smell the halo of burned flyaways around her head. Her long, tattered skirts make excellent kindling: they have caught glowing embers like so many ants, crawling up a few threads and fading into speckled shadows of ash. With a victorious sigh she looks over her shoulder, as if to confirm that she had actually done it.
Then he speaks of promises, and the huff that follows takes the shape of a smile. Her familiarity with the demi-gods has extended about as far as their names, content as she has been in the ignorance of her own small, savage world. But she finds herself more fond of their strangely familiar manner than she had expected to be-- their honesty, like one’s nudity, is thinly veiled. “No promise then,” she agrees with a nod, then turns toward Ronin and his suggestion.
“I think I will,” she says suddenly, sooner than even she seemed to expect to. Her cloak is already shed, after all, the scuff marks in the grass prepared for her launch. She drops her bag and, before she can convince herself not to again, breaks for the obsidian bowl.
And then she is on the other side, with only heat and adrenaline in her recent memory. Her beating heart burns in her chest, her arms are flush with sweat and sincerity, and she can smell the halo of burned flyaways around her head. Her long, tattered skirts make excellent kindling: they have caught glowing embers like so many ants, crawling up a few threads and fading into speckled shadows of ash. With a victorious sigh she looks over her shoulder, as if to confirm that she had actually done it.
