you have heard the stories about how the dead have already cried, like crushed grass and wilted flowers and memories carved into stone, then forgotten.
The woman at the gate, the same that dropped her shoulder and cranked open the door so that Jask could enter the arena, the same that then watches him stroll back in, bruised and bloodied, has her cheek turned toward him.
She is watching everything: a bug that crawls along the dry stone and sand, a hushed conversation in the corner between a soldier and his brother in arms, the light of a torch as it waves slowly against the limestone wall-- but there is a pocket of space that her eye cannot touch, that she feels her heart stutter as she approaches.
In it, there is Jask, watching blood run down his leg with an expression of vague disinterest that makes her skin crawl. He is not bleeding much, a slow trickle that's already clotting as he must be as a whole, too still to be live and too blank to be real. The Circle knows pain well, and blood, and all things bleak and holy and red. He has always loved the color red: the tip of his horn, the blood red of his eyes, the deep crimson of his robes, and now the wound carved into the skin of his shoulder.
The guard sees Elena move toward him. A part of her wants to say, don't. A part of her wants to step in the way and turn her out-- but when she looks at Jask, for just a second, at the almost serene, almost medititative silence with which he greets her, she knows that whatever she says will not matter.
Jask's emptiness likes Elena, who soaks it up like a sponge. When she, bright and beautiful and as gold as coastal sand, whispers where does it hurt, into the cracks of him, Jask is almost stirred.
He's never been asked this. No one has ever thought to wonder. The Circle does not preach brotherhood, just obedience. In the place of a congregation they would rather have their army. Jask turns to face her in a sweeping motion that the long red robes have to chase, settling against his ankles and leaving tracks in the sand, shallow as it may be in this room.
"I don't know," he answers, simply. Jask wonders if he feels pain. Jask wonders if it is one of the many things now lost to him. Jask struggles to remember where all that pain and anger and fear went before it is replaced, as it always is, with that same placid, holy silence.
"Where does it hurt?" he echoes. There is a hymn in his head, praying endlessly. Many sets of hooves shift in the dark around him. Everyone turns one wary but curious eye to see. Jask turns his eyes-- all three of them-- on Elena's, and Jask smiles.
jask
She is watching everything: a bug that crawls along the dry stone and sand, a hushed conversation in the corner between a soldier and his brother in arms, the light of a torch as it waves slowly against the limestone wall-- but there is a pocket of space that her eye cannot touch, that she feels her heart stutter as she approaches.
In it, there is Jask, watching blood run down his leg with an expression of vague disinterest that makes her skin crawl. He is not bleeding much, a slow trickle that's already clotting as he must be as a whole, too still to be live and too blank to be real. The Circle knows pain well, and blood, and all things bleak and holy and red. He has always loved the color red: the tip of his horn, the blood red of his eyes, the deep crimson of his robes, and now the wound carved into the skin of his shoulder.
The guard sees Elena move toward him. A part of her wants to say, don't. A part of her wants to step in the way and turn her out-- but when she looks at Jask, for just a second, at the almost serene, almost medititative silence with which he greets her, she knows that whatever she says will not matter.
Jask's emptiness likes Elena, who soaks it up like a sponge. When she, bright and beautiful and as gold as coastal sand, whispers where does it hurt, into the cracks of him, Jask is almost stirred.
He's never been asked this. No one has ever thought to wonder. The Circle does not preach brotherhood, just obedience. In the place of a congregation they would rather have their army. Jask turns to face her in a sweeping motion that the long red robes have to chase, settling against his ankles and leaving tracks in the sand, shallow as it may be in this room.
"I don't know," he answers, simply. Jask wonders if he feels pain. Jask wonders if it is one of the many things now lost to him. Jask struggles to remember where all that pain and anger and fear went before it is replaced, as it always is, with that same placid, holy silence.
"Where does it hurt?" he echoes. There is a hymn in his head, praying endlessly. Many sets of hooves shift in the dark around him. Everyone turns one wary but curious eye to see. Jask turns his eyes-- all three of them-- on Elena's, and Jask smiles.
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