and every girl that I walk around / seems to be more of an illusion than the last one I found
If this is a game about stubbornness, the golden healer will lose.
There is an inherent strength to Caine’s mask of impassivity and this is why he has never found any reason to part with it, despite the mask’s increasingly obvious pitfalls. The reason, if you ask him, is this: impassivity resists coercion.
He does not do anything he does not want to do because he has no reason whatever to incline. There is no shame to refusal if you do not care. There is no sting to betrayal if you have no loyalty left to give. There is nothing, at all, if you are nothing, at all. It is exhaustive and circular and Caine has played these odds and these cards too many times for him to consider a more appealing alternative.
His head aches anyway, and keeping it raised is beginning to gnaw at him.
He obeys her directive to keep still because it is what he’d planned on doing anyway. She is a deft healer, and before too long Caine’s ripped-open skin has been sealed over with yarrow, and the familiar tang of medicinal herbs scents the dewy clearing like sap. He has grown to dislike the smell, however, because of what he has come to associate it with (windowless rooms and tasteless gruel and a numbing that begins in the mind before eating its way to the heart) and slyly pulls his muzzle away from its resting place by his chest to look dully towards the spring-fed pond.
“I did save you,” she remarks, and he nods to allow her the affirmation. “Are you questioning my abilities?”
“That,” he says drily, “I would not dare.” There is no barb in his voice but that of laconic impassivity. He drags his eyes down to her and manages a faint smile, before flexing his patched shoulders for emphasis. “Your handiwork is very fine. I have no critiques.”
He looks again towards the water, this time serious. There is very little Caine hates more than stinking of blood, and very much he despises about blood in his hair. It mats and gnarls and hardens, and the hair, even well-combed, remains gritty for days. It is why he had cultivated the habit of plaiting his knee-length hair into elaborate braids: to keep it out of range of arterial spray.
Gingerly, Caine shifts away from the healer and begins to peel himself off of the tree trunk, bark falling in clumps from his blood-slicked coat.
He ignores her when she calls him ridiculous, though it does enough to draw out a mild scoff from his lips as he walks steadily—punctuated with the occasional stagger—to the mossy edge of the pond and wades in up to his ankles.
“You need to be monitored... you need to be properly bandaged and I need to guarantee there is no infection or chance of it—”
He cuts her off mid-speech. “What is your name?” he asks quietly. He wishes to know it so that he can use it to thank her with, and she will gladly be thanked, and—duty done, stranger saved—bid her goodbyes. Names have the effect of cinching one up at the waist. Use it in careful doses, and it will spark a reaction Caine has yet to observe elicited from any other singular word.
Water drips from Caine’s muzzle and runs a line down his throat and chest. The pond laps at his stomach serenely, the crystalline blue water blooming in waves of red. He is careful to keep his wounds dry—he is impassive but not discourteous—and raises his wings, as if to show her this, like a docile pupil.
Her mention of having a little daughter to attend to has intrigued him but not moved him. He is a thing immovable; but his lips edge towards a frown that can almost be called apologetic. “I assure you that I am not merely trying to be difficult in declining. In this state,” he shrugs, “I cannot move faster than an ambling walk, and it will be true dark by the time we arrive anywhere significant.”
He looks witheringly at how the healer holds her delicate golden limbs, as if meaning to shoulder his weight. “Even if you do carry me all of the way.” Of his own physical limits, he is only too aware. It used to be half of his job.
Reluctantly, he wades back out of the pond—half of his hair and his fur up to his stomach cleaned, which is good enough, he supposes—and moves to stand besides her. The darkening horizon reflects in crescent moons in his pale eyes.
“... is she very young?” If there is concern in his voice, he negates it by the thin way he holds his smile.
There is an inherent strength to Caine’s mask of impassivity and this is why he has never found any reason to part with it, despite the mask’s increasingly obvious pitfalls. The reason, if you ask him, is this: impassivity resists coercion.
He does not do anything he does not want to do because he has no reason whatever to incline. There is no shame to refusal if you do not care. There is no sting to betrayal if you have no loyalty left to give. There is nothing, at all, if you are nothing, at all. It is exhaustive and circular and Caine has played these odds and these cards too many times for him to consider a more appealing alternative.
His head aches anyway, and keeping it raised is beginning to gnaw at him.
He obeys her directive to keep still because it is what he’d planned on doing anyway. She is a deft healer, and before too long Caine’s ripped-open skin has been sealed over with yarrow, and the familiar tang of medicinal herbs scents the dewy clearing like sap. He has grown to dislike the smell, however, because of what he has come to associate it with (windowless rooms and tasteless gruel and a numbing that begins in the mind before eating its way to the heart) and slyly pulls his muzzle away from its resting place by his chest to look dully towards the spring-fed pond.
“I did save you,” she remarks, and he nods to allow her the affirmation. “Are you questioning my abilities?”
“That,” he says drily, “I would not dare.” There is no barb in his voice but that of laconic impassivity. He drags his eyes down to her and manages a faint smile, before flexing his patched shoulders for emphasis. “Your handiwork is very fine. I have no critiques.”
He looks again towards the water, this time serious. There is very little Caine hates more than stinking of blood, and very much he despises about blood in his hair. It mats and gnarls and hardens, and the hair, even well-combed, remains gritty for days. It is why he had cultivated the habit of plaiting his knee-length hair into elaborate braids: to keep it out of range of arterial spray.
Gingerly, Caine shifts away from the healer and begins to peel himself off of the tree trunk, bark falling in clumps from his blood-slicked coat.
He ignores her when she calls him ridiculous, though it does enough to draw out a mild scoff from his lips as he walks steadily—punctuated with the occasional stagger—to the mossy edge of the pond and wades in up to his ankles.
“You need to be monitored... you need to be properly bandaged and I need to guarantee there is no infection or chance of it—”
He cuts her off mid-speech. “What is your name?” he asks quietly. He wishes to know it so that he can use it to thank her with, and she will gladly be thanked, and—duty done, stranger saved—bid her goodbyes. Names have the effect of cinching one up at the waist. Use it in careful doses, and it will spark a reaction Caine has yet to observe elicited from any other singular word.
Water drips from Caine’s muzzle and runs a line down his throat and chest. The pond laps at his stomach serenely, the crystalline blue water blooming in waves of red. He is careful to keep his wounds dry—he is impassive but not discourteous—and raises his wings, as if to show her this, like a docile pupil.
Her mention of having a little daughter to attend to has intrigued him but not moved him. He is a thing immovable; but his lips edge towards a frown that can almost be called apologetic. “I assure you that I am not merely trying to be difficult in declining. In this state,” he shrugs, “I cannot move faster than an ambling walk, and it will be true dark by the time we arrive anywhere significant.”
He looks witheringly at how the healer holds her delicate golden limbs, as if meaning to shoulder his weight. “Even if you do carry me all of the way.” Of his own physical limits, he is only too aware. It used to be half of his job.
Reluctantly, he wades back out of the pond—half of his hair and his fur up to his stomach cleaned, which is good enough, he supposes—and moves to stand besides her. The darkening horizon reflects in crescent moons in his pale eyes.
“... is she very young?” If there is concern in his voice, he negates it by the thin way he holds his smile.
