☼ RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN ☼רות
"O YOU MISUNDERSTAND, / a game is not a law, / this dance is not a whim, / this kill is not a rival. / I crackle through your pastures / I make no profit / like the sun / I burn and burn, this tongue / licks through your body also."
"O YOU MISUNDERSTAND, / a game is not a law, / this dance is not a whim, / this kill is not a rival. / I crackle through your pastures / I make no profit / like the sun / I burn and burn, this tongue / licks through your body also."
He looms over me. I notice. This is not the same as feeling small.
There is one flaw that all three of my brothers share, and this is a certain preoccupation with how they are perceived. I have never had such a luxury; I am the plainest member of my household by far, and perhaps the only one with nothing special to my name. In some ways, it is a virtue. I have known for my entire life that it would be useless to attempt to compete with my siblings over anything – I will always be the one found lacking, in the end. (In some ways, too, it is a virtue that I cannot be troubled too deeply over this fact. I will never be the most loved, or liked, or noticed, or admired. I will probably never be the most deeply loathed, either.)
My sisters do not compete – with each other. They fester, mostly quietly, but for Delilah. My brothers are not quite the same. Pilate is simultaneously deeply insecure and convinced of his own superiority; I think that the latter is the cause of the former. He has always desired the best of everything, and, much like his twin, has a troubling need to be the center of attention. I am sometimes convinced that nothing less than being considered divine would satisfy his vainglory urges. Corradh has always felt like he is the least of the three – the least striking, least blessed, perhaps even least beloved. I think that is why he has always been attention-seeking, though his needs grew far more caustic after our parents died, more bloody. It is no mystery why he is always seeking out lovers; it is the same reason why he is always seeking a fight. And Adonai - I think that Adonai would quite like to be a martyr, if you gave him the chance. He has always been one of the more romantic members of my family, if not the most, with his polished, plucking lyre and his quiet, golden elegance. Never mind, of course, that my brother has never suffered a day in his life but for his own illness; never mind that I have seen men sicker than him forced to toil and labor beneath the desert sun to keep their children fed the next day.
My brothers have always cared far too much about what people think of them. It has prevented them from taking note of far more valuable things; it has prevented them from reaching certain understandings. The man is taller than I am, and bulkier, and flashier. Certainly, he is imposing; you might even call him threatening, though his stance is nothing but. This is barely investigation - mostly, it is simple conversation.
If he troubles me, his head will hang over the gates outside of the manor – or, better, the city – when dawn breaks tomorrow morning; and, perhaps worse, I have seen the way that he looks at my brother. (I have seen the way my brother looks at him.)
I am not my brothers.
Why should I ever feel small in a situation where I hold all the cards?
You can tell me which sister you are, he says, his voice largely emotionless; his lips do not quite twist up into a smile, but for a suggestion of movement. Mine remain at a businesslike, neutral angle.
I watch him, unblinking. I have heard people describe my stare as unnerving, when I am not trying to guise it; my dull golden eyes, which are so charming on my siblings, look like the sickly glow of a harvest moon on me. “I am Ruth,” I answer, simply, “the third daughter.” I do not know yet if that means anything to him; I do not know if I will. Still, I know that he will have my family’s teeth in him soon, whether he likes it or not, because Adonai likes him, and Pilate has never been able to stand him liking anything without trying to ruin it – or, else, take it for himself.
I think that I might pity him, if I cared. (I don’t care.)
My stare is still trained on him when I say, without any particular warmth, “And you are one of Adonai’s guests.” I say it like an observation; like I might say that the sky is blue, or the dunes of the Mors are gold. It is ostensibly a question, though I cannot say that there is any curiosity in my dull tone.
My kohl-lined eyes never leave his own.
@Vercingtorix || <3 || atwood, "fox/fire song"
There is one flaw that all three of my brothers share, and this is a certain preoccupation with how they are perceived. I have never had such a luxury; I am the plainest member of my household by far, and perhaps the only one with nothing special to my name. In some ways, it is a virtue. I have known for my entire life that it would be useless to attempt to compete with my siblings over anything – I will always be the one found lacking, in the end. (In some ways, too, it is a virtue that I cannot be troubled too deeply over this fact. I will never be the most loved, or liked, or noticed, or admired. I will probably never be the most deeply loathed, either.)
My sisters do not compete – with each other. They fester, mostly quietly, but for Delilah. My brothers are not quite the same. Pilate is simultaneously deeply insecure and convinced of his own superiority; I think that the latter is the cause of the former. He has always desired the best of everything, and, much like his twin, has a troubling need to be the center of attention. I am sometimes convinced that nothing less than being considered divine would satisfy his vainglory urges. Corradh has always felt like he is the least of the three – the least striking, least blessed, perhaps even least beloved. I think that is why he has always been attention-seeking, though his needs grew far more caustic after our parents died, more bloody. It is no mystery why he is always seeking out lovers; it is the same reason why he is always seeking a fight. And Adonai - I think that Adonai would quite like to be a martyr, if you gave him the chance. He has always been one of the more romantic members of my family, if not the most, with his polished, plucking lyre and his quiet, golden elegance. Never mind, of course, that my brother has never suffered a day in his life but for his own illness; never mind that I have seen men sicker than him forced to toil and labor beneath the desert sun to keep their children fed the next day.
My brothers have always cared far too much about what people think of them. It has prevented them from taking note of far more valuable things; it has prevented them from reaching certain understandings. The man is taller than I am, and bulkier, and flashier. Certainly, he is imposing; you might even call him threatening, though his stance is nothing but. This is barely investigation - mostly, it is simple conversation.
If he troubles me, his head will hang over the gates outside of the manor – or, better, the city – when dawn breaks tomorrow morning; and, perhaps worse, I have seen the way that he looks at my brother. (I have seen the way my brother looks at him.)
I am not my brothers.
Why should I ever feel small in a situation where I hold all the cards?
You can tell me which sister you are, he says, his voice largely emotionless; his lips do not quite twist up into a smile, but for a suggestion of movement. Mine remain at a businesslike, neutral angle.
I watch him, unblinking. I have heard people describe my stare as unnerving, when I am not trying to guise it; my dull golden eyes, which are so charming on my siblings, look like the sickly glow of a harvest moon on me. “I am Ruth,” I answer, simply, “the third daughter.” I do not know yet if that means anything to him; I do not know if I will. Still, I know that he will have my family’s teeth in him soon, whether he likes it or not, because Adonai likes him, and Pilate has never been able to stand him liking anything without trying to ruin it – or, else, take it for himself.
I think that I might pity him, if I cared. (I don’t care.)
My stare is still trained on him when I say, without any particular warmth, “And you are one of Adonai’s guests.” I say it like an observation; like I might say that the sky is blue, or the dunes of the Mors are gold. It is ostensibly a question, though I cannot say that there is any curiosity in my dull tone.
My kohl-lined eyes never leave his own.
@
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
