day turns to night / my worries come to life
Kassandra does not know where all her energy has gone. If she’d been a ship, her sails would slacken completely, the wind not just gone but taken. Spirited away somewhere, and all she was left with was some sort of empty husk, home to barren devastation.
Had she not been enough?
Caligo had chosen her. She sent her these visions for a reason. And so when Kassandra had rushed to supplicate the Night Queens holy feet and beg for some clarity, some relief, what had she said? What had the witch said? Your visions are vivid and powerful. The thought of the words made a childlike rage, a wall of infantile frustration bubble up through Kas like she was a crack in the continent and what dwelled beneath her was hellfire.
She already knew that! She’d known that all these years, all these long, tortuous, dreaming years. Every nightmare, every vision, every shake, every morning waking up to bloodshot eyes and sore bones and bruises.
One day you will need to tell me the words I spoke, the pictures I painted.
No! Kassandra wanted to scream. You need to tell me! You’re the goddess here! That’s your job!
And afterwards, there was a sinking feeling, a horrible thought, a realization that dawned on her and turned her veins tepid:
Maybe Caligo didn’t actually have the answers… because the dreams weren’t from Caligo.
What if she was nothing more than some silly, unwanted girl who was fucked up in the head? What if she deserved nothing better than her Folly Tower? What if seeing Furae’s fate and then it happening was just some mad coincidence?
What if she was nothing?
She is shaken, and hollow, and feels very scared and small for the first time in a long time. Like, back when she was dying in the desert, long time. So as Ira gathered what courage was his, what faith was his, what confidence was gifted to him, Kassandra could only watch, body numb, and listen as his words fell on shattered, far-away ears.
She was not upset with him, by any means. Likewise, she was not angry at not being chosen. Rivane had chosen her, stood by her side, and that was good enough for her. She bore Ira no ill will. But she stands now, listening to him speak, not really putting meaning to his words, and all she can see is the black shadow of Caligo’s monument, absorbing the faint, lavender dusklight.
Ira paces like a tactician. Something for the people. How admirable. How good of him. There is hope here, yes? Hope that things will get better. Oculos watches him, enthralled like a good dog, and turns back to Kas, and falters. She should be jubilant, and excited, and ready for whatever challenge is coming next. Kas always is. He paws at her hock, anxious. i think you would make a good champion of community. everyone likes you.
Her lips pull thin against the frame of her teeth. Something inside of her is worn raw and growing teeth and claws. Luvena comes forward and speaks and Kas can see her worth. Cicatrix is there, as well, though Kassandra knows them only by name. They already have a title. Katniss, as well, and certainly deserving of all the respect, and responsibility, lauded heavy upon her strong shoulders.
Kas does not dislike any of them. She does not know why she feels such a pitched darkness, a thrall, rattling around in her guts; an empty spot in her ribcage where her joy would once be.
Everyone around her was stepping forward and promising to be good, promising to be worthwhile, promising to be useful. She was just a tired woman with no social graces and terrible dreams.
She smoothed her smile out into something believable, something less pained and more calmly accepting of whatever she was going through. She offered Ira-- a stranger, her king, now-- her best curtsy. Years upon long years could not dull the lessons ingrained in her (she’d had nothing else to do, nowhere to go, but take what she was given and learn what she was taught) and the movement was still sharp, precise, perfect.
“My sovereign,” she said, voice dry, but genuine. She spoke only the truth. “And my fellow Denoctians. I, too, will offer whatever it is I can.”
Whatever little it is, I suppose, you can have it.
Had she not been enough?
Caligo had chosen her. She sent her these visions for a reason. And so when Kassandra had rushed to supplicate the Night Queens holy feet and beg for some clarity, some relief, what had she said? What had the witch said? Your visions are vivid and powerful. The thought of the words made a childlike rage, a wall of infantile frustration bubble up through Kas like she was a crack in the continent and what dwelled beneath her was hellfire.
She already knew that! She’d known that all these years, all these long, tortuous, dreaming years. Every nightmare, every vision, every shake, every morning waking up to bloodshot eyes and sore bones and bruises.
One day you will need to tell me the words I spoke, the pictures I painted.
No! Kassandra wanted to scream. You need to tell me! You’re the goddess here! That’s your job!
And afterwards, there was a sinking feeling, a horrible thought, a realization that dawned on her and turned her veins tepid:
Maybe Caligo didn’t actually have the answers… because the dreams weren’t from Caligo.
What if she was nothing more than some silly, unwanted girl who was fucked up in the head? What if she deserved nothing better than her Folly Tower? What if seeing Furae’s fate and then it happening was just some mad coincidence?
What if she was nothing?
She is shaken, and hollow, and feels very scared and small for the first time in a long time. Like, back when she was dying in the desert, long time. So as Ira gathered what courage was his, what faith was his, what confidence was gifted to him, Kassandra could only watch, body numb, and listen as his words fell on shattered, far-away ears.
She was not upset with him, by any means. Likewise, she was not angry at not being chosen. Rivane had chosen her, stood by her side, and that was good enough for her. She bore Ira no ill will. But she stands now, listening to him speak, not really putting meaning to his words, and all she can see is the black shadow of Caligo’s monument, absorbing the faint, lavender dusklight.
Ira paces like a tactician. Something for the people. How admirable. How good of him. There is hope here, yes? Hope that things will get better. Oculos watches him, enthralled like a good dog, and turns back to Kas, and falters. She should be jubilant, and excited, and ready for whatever challenge is coming next. Kas always is. He paws at her hock, anxious. i think you would make a good champion of community. everyone likes you.
Her lips pull thin against the frame of her teeth. Something inside of her is worn raw and growing teeth and claws. Luvena comes forward and speaks and Kas can see her worth. Cicatrix is there, as well, though Kassandra knows them only by name. They already have a title. Katniss, as well, and certainly deserving of all the respect, and responsibility, lauded heavy upon her strong shoulders.
Kas does not dislike any of them. She does not know why she feels such a pitched darkness, a thrall, rattling around in her guts; an empty spot in her ribcage where her joy would once be.
Everyone around her was stepping forward and promising to be good, promising to be worthwhile, promising to be useful. She was just a tired woman with no social graces and terrible dreams.
She smoothed her smile out into something believable, something less pained and more calmly accepting of whatever she was going through. She offered Ira-- a stranger, her king, now-- her best curtsy. Years upon long years could not dull the lessons ingrained in her (she’d had nothing else to do, nowhere to go, but take what she was given and learn what she was taught) and the movement was still sharp, precise, perfect.
“My sovereign,” she said, voice dry, but genuine. She spoke only the truth. “And my fellow Denoctians. I, too, will offer whatever it is I can.”
Whatever little it is, I suppose, you can have it.
