To see the anguish he has already experienced reflected in her awakening is nearly unbearable.
A childish fury arises in him, a fury he had thought he had outgrown—this isn’t fair, this isn’t fair.
He almost chides himself, but already his concern for her has outweighed his own thoughts. He tries to explain with cool, polite logic; he recounts a tragedy greater than any he could have imagined (greater than war, greater than death) as if it is a conversation for the dinner table. Gods she mutters, and it nearly undoes him.
He knows, he knows.
It is not enough.
And there are too many brothers and sisters entombed forever.
And there are too many lost, dead, forgotten—are they forgotten? If not by the Arete than by Solterra, Solis, Novus?
Fucking fools. He almost flinches. We have to find them. He knows she is speaking of Zakariah and Arjun. He knows who she refers to—but the blame belongs to Zayir.
He knows she will come to see it. He knows that she will recognise he, as the leader, should have seen the treachery and prevented it.
Da’mayitt. Zayir nods, quietly. She performs a death-ritual; she ensures their brother is dead, with a squelching of wet flesh for the blade’s rusted edge.
He wishes they had time to remove the body, and burn it, in typical Solterra custom. He wishes, desperately, the catacombs did not feel awake and alive around them; as if pulsating; as if groaning with other half-asleep monsters, ready to awaken.
“Come.” Zayir says, ushering her around Halim’s body and into the dark. He knows if they keep walking, they will see the light—he knows as long as they can place foot before foot, there will be an end. But in the whispering catacombs again, he begins to wonder if perhaps he had imagined everything; if he had never escaped at all—
Get it together, Zayir tells himself, fiercely. He offers his shoulder to Cyrra to lean into. She may as well be his sister; and perhaps he is selfishly glad it is her, and not someone else, he found. “There will be retribution,” he assures her, in a voice that sounds louder than it ought to. “I promise it.”
They are nearly out, now.
The light from outside peers in, questioningly. What has taken you so long? it seems to say. I have been here all this time, unchanged.
"Speaks" || @Cyrra
A childish fury arises in him, a fury he had thought he had outgrown—this isn’t fair, this isn’t fair.
He almost chides himself, but already his concern for her has outweighed his own thoughts. He tries to explain with cool, polite logic; he recounts a tragedy greater than any he could have imagined (greater than war, greater than death) as if it is a conversation for the dinner table. Gods she mutters, and it nearly undoes him.
He knows, he knows.
It is not enough.
And there are too many brothers and sisters entombed forever.
And there are too many lost, dead, forgotten—are they forgotten? If not by the Arete than by Solterra, Solis, Novus?
Fucking fools. He almost flinches. We have to find them. He knows she is speaking of Zakariah and Arjun. He knows who she refers to—but the blame belongs to Zayir.
He knows she will come to see it. He knows that she will recognise he, as the leader, should have seen the treachery and prevented it.
Da’mayitt. Zayir nods, quietly. She performs a death-ritual; she ensures their brother is dead, with a squelching of wet flesh for the blade’s rusted edge.
He wishes they had time to remove the body, and burn it, in typical Solterra custom. He wishes, desperately, the catacombs did not feel awake and alive around them; as if pulsating; as if groaning with other half-asleep monsters, ready to awaken.
“Come.” Zayir says, ushering her around Halim’s body and into the dark. He knows if they keep walking, they will see the light—he knows as long as they can place foot before foot, there will be an end. But in the whispering catacombs again, he begins to wonder if perhaps he had imagined everything; if he had never escaped at all—
Get it together, Zayir tells himself, fiercely. He offers his shoulder to Cyrra to lean into. She may as well be his sister; and perhaps he is selfishly glad it is her, and not someone else, he found. “There will be retribution,” he assures her, in a voice that sounds louder than it ought to. “I promise it.”
They are nearly out, now.
The light from outside peers in, questioningly. What has taken you so long? it seems to say. I have been here all this time, unchanged.
"Speaks" || @
down into the folly, you took my hand
past the thistle and the red elm
