☼ RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN ☼רות
"The mouth was open / stretched wide in a call or howl / (there was no tongue) / of agony, ultimate / command or simple famine. / The canine teeth ranged back / into the throat and vanished. / The mouth was filled with darkness. / The darkness in the open mouth / uttered itself, pushing / aside the light."
"The mouth was open / stretched wide in a call or howl / (there was no tongue) / of agony, ultimate / command or simple famine. / The canine teeth ranged back / into the throat and vanished. / The mouth was filled with darkness. / The darkness in the open mouth / uttered itself, pushing / aside the light."
The fire crackles. I stare at it, at the embers crawling like red ants over the charred wood. I’m not sure how long it will last before it goes out, particularly in this cold, particularly in this storm, but, for now, the room has warmed almost-pleasantly.
The honest answer, Ruth? Ishak says, and I somehow know exactly what to expect before the words are out of his mouth. I’d prefer it not to know I was there at all. Of course he wouldn’t. Of course, any reasonable person wouldn’t, and it’s probably my own delusion (our own delusion, collectively) that Solis pays any more mind to the Ieshans than he does anyone else. He didn’t even seem to care when his own sovereign, supposed to be (by all accounts) his chosen one, was struck down in her prime by a tyrant from Denocte.
(But, then, she was not of royal blood.)
The cardinal sin of my family is mine too: the longing to be seen. How could it be anything else? Each flash of scales or spark of pale gold or dance of silk or shock of teeth or curl of red – everything about us begs look at me. All the ugliness and intrigue under the surface begs look at me. All the rituals, all the prayers, everything – it doesn’t mean look at god. It means look at me.
“You’re probably right,” I say, slowly. "That's what any reasonable person would prefer." How much time do I spend outside of the city walls? How much time do I spend in the desert, in the company of the sandwyrms and teryrs so emblematic of Solterra? Far less, I think, than I spend down by the docks, or at the shore. That is to say: I wouldn’t know what to do with a sandwyrm at all, if I met one in passing. The most I know of them is their consequence; the most I know of them is bloodied, half-devoured bodies brought into the morgue or grisly scars in emergency care. (That is to say: I wouldn’t know what to do with Solis at all, if I met him, by fate or in passing.)
Ishak is probably right. Ishak is probably right, and it doesn’t matter a bit. We’ll be back in the spring, regardless.
At my comment on sleep, Ishak tosses me a smirk, and then he settles down on the stone floor of the cave; I follow him down, our heights quickly returning to something like their usual discrepancy, adjusting the blanket pulled across my shoulders. Doctor’s orders, huh? I nearly roll my eyes, but I don’t. It would suggest that I feel stronger than I do, and I don't bother pretending like that for Ishak.
I don’t dignify his remark with a response. Instead, I rest my jaw on the curve of his shoulder almost unconsciously, and I allow my eyes to close.
It is still some time before I fall asleep.
@Ishak || is this coherent? idk man. anyways, A Close??? || atwood, "projected slide of an unknown soldier"
The honest answer, Ruth? Ishak says, and I somehow know exactly what to expect before the words are out of his mouth. I’d prefer it not to know I was there at all. Of course he wouldn’t. Of course, any reasonable person wouldn’t, and it’s probably my own delusion (our own delusion, collectively) that Solis pays any more mind to the Ieshans than he does anyone else. He didn’t even seem to care when his own sovereign, supposed to be (by all accounts) his chosen one, was struck down in her prime by a tyrant from Denocte.
(But, then, she was not of royal blood.)
The cardinal sin of my family is mine too: the longing to be seen. How could it be anything else? Each flash of scales or spark of pale gold or dance of silk or shock of teeth or curl of red – everything about us begs look at me. All the ugliness and intrigue under the surface begs look at me. All the rituals, all the prayers, everything – it doesn’t mean look at god. It means look at me.
“You’re probably right,” I say, slowly. "That's what any reasonable person would prefer." How much time do I spend outside of the city walls? How much time do I spend in the desert, in the company of the sandwyrms and teryrs so emblematic of Solterra? Far less, I think, than I spend down by the docks, or at the shore. That is to say: I wouldn’t know what to do with a sandwyrm at all, if I met one in passing. The most I know of them is their consequence; the most I know of them is bloodied, half-devoured bodies brought into the morgue or grisly scars in emergency care. (That is to say: I wouldn’t know what to do with Solis at all, if I met him, by fate or in passing.)
Ishak is probably right. Ishak is probably right, and it doesn’t matter a bit. We’ll be back in the spring, regardless.
At my comment on sleep, Ishak tosses me a smirk, and then he settles down on the stone floor of the cave; I follow him down, our heights quickly returning to something like their usual discrepancy, adjusting the blanket pulled across my shoulders. Doctor’s orders, huh? I nearly roll my eyes, but I don’t. It would suggest that I feel stronger than I do, and I don't bother pretending like that for Ishak.
I don’t dignify his remark with a response. Instead, I rest my jaw on the curve of his shoulder almost unconsciously, and I allow my eyes to close.
It is still some time before I fall asleep.
@
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
