☼ RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN ☼רות
"bronzed as earth, the second lies / hearing ticks blown gold / like pollen on bright air. Lulled / near a bed of poppies,"
"bronzed as earth, the second lies / hearing ticks blown gold / like pollen on bright air. Lulled / near a bed of poppies,"
In the entryway, the music swells and falls like the dunes in the Mors, or like the sea. Unlike my siblings, I am sea-stone, not sand; I have never been sure which comparison is more apt.
Whatever can be said of my brother (and many, many things can be said of my brother), Pilate does know how to throw a party. I navigate the halls of our home slowly, my eyes lingering a moment on each passing detail – each gilded thing that was not present yesterday, each string of bright lights, each servant-in-black with a tray full of wine glasses and appetizers. It would probably be wrong to attribute too much of this to Pilate. Ishak, I am sure, would scold me for my inattentiveness. He might have conducted the efforts, but the work, ultimately, fell to the hired help, and I saw them as they scrambled to adhere to his – high – standards.
I don’t pity them, because I do not pity anyone; I don’t think that I can. (Ishak says that pity is as likely to make things worse as it is to make them better, anyways.) Still, at the sight of their uniformed bodies, I can’t help but occasionally feel a certain stir of wrongness.
Maybe it is just because I spend most of my days in the hospital. Things are different, there.
I drift through each open section of the manor aimlessly – look at the gathered artists painting designs on Corradh. who seems more than happy to bask in their attentions, at Hagar cornering a pair of hapless partygoers, at Adonai lingering statuesque among statues, looking as much a moving corpse as a man (certainly, I could not mistake him for a statue – he appears too sickly for anything that we would purchase), at Pilate serving drinks and greeting each guest with a kind of indulgent enthusiasm. I wonder, idly, where Miriam is. She has barely been out of her room, but surely she did not miss the uproar of the party preparations; I am outside of the manor most of the day, and I was still aware of Pilate’s plans.
Still – no matter how I look for her, I cannot find my other sister. It’s a pity, somewhat. Ishak is preoccupied, and I think that there is something pitiful about the look of a hostess – however mild – walking alone at her family’s own party. (It is the consequence, I suppose, of being the least sociable (and beloved) sibling.) I try not to pay too much mind to the aesthetics; so long as I keep walking, it will look like I have somewhere to be. Somewhere important.
Idly, I twine my hair around the pink flowers braided into my mane. Almost all of them have fallen out; the few that remain are wilted. Still, their sweet scent remains, disguising the air of gore that lingers on my heels almost perpetually.
I have looped around the manor three times when I come to a slow halt in the entryway and pluck a wine glass from one of the trays that the servants are carrying. The waiter catches my eye, for just a moment, and I nod my head to him once. I don’t drink. Still – it looks better to have a glass.
Across the room, musicians are playing on gilded instruments. (Wherever I look, the world seems gilded.) The invitation was correct; the music is good, particularly compared for the accompaniment to the last few I attended, and I am someone who cares very little for the arts. (It is not as though my brother would settle for anything less.)
I lift my glass to my lips and smell the wine, but I do not drink.
@Maret ||tbh this thread should be probably titled "ways to Not convince Maret to join Day," but, uhh world's worst welcome committee || "Two Sisters of Persephone," Plath
Whatever can be said of my brother (and many, many things can be said of my brother), Pilate does know how to throw a party. I navigate the halls of our home slowly, my eyes lingering a moment on each passing detail – each gilded thing that was not present yesterday, each string of bright lights, each servant-in-black with a tray full of wine glasses and appetizers. It would probably be wrong to attribute too much of this to Pilate. Ishak, I am sure, would scold me for my inattentiveness. He might have conducted the efforts, but the work, ultimately, fell to the hired help, and I saw them as they scrambled to adhere to his – high – standards.
I don’t pity them, because I do not pity anyone; I don’t think that I can. (Ishak says that pity is as likely to make things worse as it is to make them better, anyways.) Still, at the sight of their uniformed bodies, I can’t help but occasionally feel a certain stir of wrongness.
Maybe it is just because I spend most of my days in the hospital. Things are different, there.
I drift through each open section of the manor aimlessly – look at the gathered artists painting designs on Corradh. who seems more than happy to bask in their attentions, at Hagar cornering a pair of hapless partygoers, at Adonai lingering statuesque among statues, looking as much a moving corpse as a man (certainly, I could not mistake him for a statue – he appears too sickly for anything that we would purchase), at Pilate serving drinks and greeting each guest with a kind of indulgent enthusiasm. I wonder, idly, where Miriam is. She has barely been out of her room, but surely she did not miss the uproar of the party preparations; I am outside of the manor most of the day, and I was still aware of Pilate’s plans.
Still – no matter how I look for her, I cannot find my other sister. It’s a pity, somewhat. Ishak is preoccupied, and I think that there is something pitiful about the look of a hostess – however mild – walking alone at her family’s own party. (It is the consequence, I suppose, of being the least sociable (and beloved) sibling.) I try not to pay too much mind to the aesthetics; so long as I keep walking, it will look like I have somewhere to be. Somewhere important.
Idly, I twine my hair around the pink flowers braided into my mane. Almost all of them have fallen out; the few that remain are wilted. Still, their sweet scent remains, disguising the air of gore that lingers on my heels almost perpetually.
I have looped around the manor three times when I come to a slow halt in the entryway and pluck a wine glass from one of the trays that the servants are carrying. The waiter catches my eye, for just a moment, and I nod my head to him once. I don’t drink. Still – it looks better to have a glass.
Across the room, musicians are playing on gilded instruments. (Wherever I look, the world seems gilded.) The invitation was correct; the music is good, particularly compared for the accompaniment to the last few I attended, and I am someone who cares very little for the arts. (It is not as though my brother would settle for anything less.)
I lift my glass to my lips and smell the wine, but I do not drink.
@Maret ||
HE FEEDS ME RED MEAT / HE WATCHES THE BLOOD POOL IN MY MOUTHlaughs at my red teeth❂please tag Ruth! contact is encouraged, short of violence
