☼ RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN ☼רות
"you know when you become / something it eats you? the teeth / in my hand. the weight of the handle, / the meat separating from the bone."
"you know when you become / something it eats you? the teeth / in my hand. the weight of the handle, / the meat separating from the bone."
If it were up to me, I think that I would stay here a while longer.
It’s hard to say why. I don’t like the reflections; I am not interested enough in magic to much care about why they are doing the things that they are doing, either. This far into the island, there aren’t any plants growing in the crystal-covered soil, and, even along the shore, the remaining weeds were ragged and useless. Even if I wanted to bring them back with me, they were so sickly and weak that I doubted they would survive the trip back to Solterra.
I don’t like the reflections, much, either. I don’t like the Ruths-in-the-mirror; I don’t like the ones with sharp teeth, or the ones with scales, or the ones that smile prettily and innocently in a way that I can’t. I don’t like the ones that weep, because I can’t do that honestly, and I don’t like the ones that glare at me, because I don’t think they have the right. I don’t like the ones that show my siblings – in one state or another – because, lately, I don’t want to think of them at all – least of all how things could have been, or, worse, how things might still be. I don’t care for the Other-Ishaks, too. I probably mind them less than Ishak, knowing him, but I don’t like them, chiefly because they aren’t Ishak, at least as I know him.
(I loathe to think that there are parts of Ishak that I don’t know, things that he won’t tell me or show me. You should not ask me why; I don’t know why. And the fact of the matter is that I know that Ishak knows far more about me than I know about him. There is little I can do to convince him to talk about himself, and even less to assure that he is being honest when he answers.)
Ishak doesn’t answer my question at all. I can’t see the answer to my question written across his face, either, though I’d like to think that I could make a good guess at what it would be, if he were willing to verbalize it. I know that I shouldn’t, but I let him get away with his silence. It isn’t because I care. I can’t. Still, I have enough interpersonal skills – barely – to know that I shouldn’t press him any further when he is already so stressed.
When I gesture towards the path, Ishak grimaces. The expression does not linger on his lips for long, but it lingers long enough for me to notice it. I take it that he has seen the blood; there wasn’t much hiding it anyways. I wonder what he expects to find at the end of it. I wonder what I expect to find at the end of it – him, with one sharp object or another, leaned over a corpse, or the me-with-teeth, a devourer?
(I can understand my toothy, bloodied reflection where I doubt that Ishak can empathize with his. Perhaps that is why I would like to stay a while longer. All of her hunger, all of her emptiness – I feel it, too. But no blood and bone will fill me where I am starved. It would only make me sicker.)
“If I had a rope, or yarn, I think I’d tie a line to you. Try not to get separated from me this time?” Ishak is annoyed with me. It isn’t hard to tell. It isn’t rare, either – but it still troubles me in a way that few things do. (Not, of course, because he is upset. Because it is trouble for me. Because I like to be liked by him. Does that make sense? I think that I enjoy the attention.)
He twines my hair – already fallen – into another braid. This one is stronger, and meant to last at least a little while; he plucks one of the beads from his mane and holds it with it, and I look, for a moment, at the fleck of red curled into the stone-brown of my hair, like a fleck of blood. I don’t linger on the comparison for long.
I walk back, then, and right up to him – and I don’t stop moving until I am right at his side, close enough to brush against his shoulder. Close enough to feel his skin against mine. “Is this good enough for you?” I’ll have to walk quicker than usual to keep up with him, but it is probably worth it. It will do me no good to get separated from him again; we aren’t alone on this island, and, even if we were, it would worry Ishak, and, though I am not – cannot be – troubled by that, I try not to do it on principle.
“Shall we?” he says, and starts walking. I fall into step at his side, though I linger closer to his flank than his shoulders.
“If you insist,” I say, only mostly apathetic.
@Ishak || wanted to finish this for you Tonight - happy first day of classes? || sam sax, "ribs"
It’s hard to say why. I don’t like the reflections; I am not interested enough in magic to much care about why they are doing the things that they are doing, either. This far into the island, there aren’t any plants growing in the crystal-covered soil, and, even along the shore, the remaining weeds were ragged and useless. Even if I wanted to bring them back with me, they were so sickly and weak that I doubted they would survive the trip back to Solterra.
I don’t like the reflections, much, either. I don’t like the Ruths-in-the-mirror; I don’t like the ones with sharp teeth, or the ones with scales, or the ones that smile prettily and innocently in a way that I can’t. I don’t like the ones that weep, because I can’t do that honestly, and I don’t like the ones that glare at me, because I don’t think they have the right. I don’t like the ones that show my siblings – in one state or another – because, lately, I don’t want to think of them at all – least of all how things could have been, or, worse, how things might still be. I don’t care for the Other-Ishaks, too. I probably mind them less than Ishak, knowing him, but I don’t like them, chiefly because they aren’t Ishak, at least as I know him.
(I loathe to think that there are parts of Ishak that I don’t know, things that he won’t tell me or show me. You should not ask me why; I don’t know why. And the fact of the matter is that I know that Ishak knows far more about me than I know about him. There is little I can do to convince him to talk about himself, and even less to assure that he is being honest when he answers.)
Ishak doesn’t answer my question at all. I can’t see the answer to my question written across his face, either, though I’d like to think that I could make a good guess at what it would be, if he were willing to verbalize it. I know that I shouldn’t, but I let him get away with his silence. It isn’t because I care. I can’t. Still, I have enough interpersonal skills – barely – to know that I shouldn’t press him any further when he is already so stressed.
When I gesture towards the path, Ishak grimaces. The expression does not linger on his lips for long, but it lingers long enough for me to notice it. I take it that he has seen the blood; there wasn’t much hiding it anyways. I wonder what he expects to find at the end of it. I wonder what I expect to find at the end of it – him, with one sharp object or another, leaned over a corpse, or the me-with-teeth, a devourer?
(I can understand my toothy, bloodied reflection where I doubt that Ishak can empathize with his. Perhaps that is why I would like to stay a while longer. All of her hunger, all of her emptiness – I feel it, too. But no blood and bone will fill me where I am starved. It would only make me sicker.)
“If I had a rope, or yarn, I think I’d tie a line to you. Try not to get separated from me this time?” Ishak is annoyed with me. It isn’t hard to tell. It isn’t rare, either – but it still troubles me in a way that few things do. (Not, of course, because he is upset. Because it is trouble for me. Because I like to be liked by him. Does that make sense? I think that I enjoy the attention.)
He twines my hair – already fallen – into another braid. This one is stronger, and meant to last at least a little while; he plucks one of the beads from his mane and holds it with it, and I look, for a moment, at the fleck of red curled into the stone-brown of my hair, like a fleck of blood. I don’t linger on the comparison for long.
I walk back, then, and right up to him – and I don’t stop moving until I am right at his side, close enough to brush against his shoulder. Close enough to feel his skin against mine. “Is this good enough for you?” I’ll have to walk quicker than usual to keep up with him, but it is probably worth it. It will do me no good to get separated from him again; we aren’t alone on this island, and, even if we were, it would worry Ishak, and, though I am not – cannot be – troubled by that, I try not to do it on principle.
“Shall we?” he says, and starts walking. I fall into step at his side, though I linger closer to his flank than his shoulders.
“If you insist,” I say, only mostly apathetic.
@
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
