☼ RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN ☼רות
"Will you rescue me? / What kingdom will replace my bounty / of leisure, what tether of care and nurture / do you wish to rope my neck with?"
"Will you rescue me? / What kingdom will replace my bounty / of leisure, what tether of care and nurture / do you wish to rope my neck with?"
She is there, in front of me, all sharp claws and teeth – and I am looking at her, but I am also looking past her and out into the crowd, my gaze raking each and every passing face in search of anyone familiar. I’ve learned, during all of these occasions, that it is best to keep track of all the moving parts. If one of my siblings pass by, I notice it. (They do not, most often, notice me.) If a powerful noble passes through, I notice. (They do not see me.) And even if I am not looking for anyone, I have Ishak at my side, my second set of eyes; they are just as good to me as my own.
I think that I catch a glimpse of him, here and there. I am not sure if the woman sees him – but what I know is that he is watching her, all tooth and claw, and, if she makes a move, that he will be at my side before I can blink. It is why I can meet her eyes with my usual, assured neutrality, why I can raise my chin in spite of our difference in both force and stature.
When she tells me that she is looking for a man with a bleeding heart, I do not even raise an eyebrow.
“I’ve seen plenty of men with bleeding hearts,” I say, and what I mean is, more than you can imagine. I have opened up their chests to see their hearts myself, watched them bleed onto my surgical knife and gown; and I have seen other men bleed, too. I have seen my eldest brother with his perpetually-weeping heart; Pilate, with his perpetual, overblown sense of inadequacy; Corradh, with his bone-deep emptiness, the one that he is always trying to fill with love and violence. There’s Ishak, too, but he isn’t the same, because there are no holes in Ishak, and I’d only ever say that his heart is bleeding to needle him. (He is quietly empathetic, more than an assassin ever should be. More than an assassin should be at all.)
I cannot possibly know that she is speaking about anything but metaphor when she speaks of the man and his bleeding heart. I incline my head at her carefully, a gleam of something that is not quite curiosity in the dull depths of my golden eyes. “Who is he?”
I do not ask why she is trying to find him, or what she will do to him when she does. I could say that it is out of politeness, but I would be lying; the truth of the matter is that I do not care. Not about the murder in her eyes, not about the knife-blade violence in her tone.
I think that she wants to kill him. And all that I think about that is: as long as she doesn’t do it at our party, I don’t care if the man with a bleeding heart lives or dies.
@Dalmatia || <3 || Jeannine Hall Gailey, "Rapunzel: I like the Quiet"
I think that I catch a glimpse of him, here and there. I am not sure if the woman sees him – but what I know is that he is watching her, all tooth and claw, and, if she makes a move, that he will be at my side before I can blink. It is why I can meet her eyes with my usual, assured neutrality, why I can raise my chin in spite of our difference in both force and stature.
When she tells me that she is looking for a man with a bleeding heart, I do not even raise an eyebrow.
“I’ve seen plenty of men with bleeding hearts,” I say, and what I mean is, more than you can imagine. I have opened up their chests to see their hearts myself, watched them bleed onto my surgical knife and gown; and I have seen other men bleed, too. I have seen my eldest brother with his perpetually-weeping heart; Pilate, with his perpetual, overblown sense of inadequacy; Corradh, with his bone-deep emptiness, the one that he is always trying to fill with love and violence. There’s Ishak, too, but he isn’t the same, because there are no holes in Ishak, and I’d only ever say that his heart is bleeding to needle him. (He is quietly empathetic, more than an assassin ever should be. More than an assassin should be at all.)
I cannot possibly know that she is speaking about anything but metaphor when she speaks of the man and his bleeding heart. I incline my head at her carefully, a gleam of something that is not quite curiosity in the dull depths of my golden eyes. “Who is he?”
I do not ask why she is trying to find him, or what she will do to him when she does. I could say that it is out of politeness, but I would be lying; the truth of the matter is that I do not care. Not about the murder in her eyes, not about the knife-blade violence in her tone.
I think that she wants to kill him. And all that I think about that is: as long as she doesn’t do it at our party, I don’t care if the man with a bleeding heart lives or dies.
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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
