what happens to a dream deferred?
The scant amount of food was making Kassandra’s stomach twist, pins and needles in the lining of her gut. Caught somewhere between the compulsion to take what was offered to not seem rude, but not wanting to take too much and seem rude, and ultimately not having an appetite, she dropped her eyes to focus on a snag in the blanket until the nausea subsided. Unfettered by her courtly concepts of restraint, Oculos had finished his provision and had set his narrow head along the trough of his narrow paws to watch the rest of the meal with raised brows, a soft sparkle of want in his brown eyes. A typical hound begging at the lunch table.
Kassandra is heavily aware of Finnick above her, hears him rustling in the boughs of the oak. She imagines the tree come winter, a barren and foreboding wolf oak, a sentinel of the Night Court and a symbol of Caligo. The thought brings a wry, sour smile to her face; maybe that’s why being in the Court unsettles her so. She is surrounded by facsimiles of the goddess who looked right in her eyes and mocked her. No wonder she feels so precarious on ground which once felt like home to her.
“Katniss,” Kassandra relents. As though that is all it will ever be. An impossibility. Katniss has been a stanchion of this community for as long as Kassandra had been in Novus. To separate the woman from the title? Hopeless. Still, Kas could imagine someone as humble and noble as Katniss flustering at being raised up, like the solid ground beneath you was far below and made of gold.
There is a tactile gentleness in the warrior radiating off of her in waves. It is comforting, despite Kassandra’s hesitancy to speak. The barrier is not outward. There is not an external force pressing her into such a corner. No, the palisade was existential, and a suffering from within. A hitch in her internal giddy-up that sent her wheels off-kilter. And while Kassandra does not imagine there is any ostensible balm which could be applied to her hurts and missed rhythms, she does admit that Katniss is only trying to help, so she listens. “It had not occurred to me to seek medical help,” Kass admitted, sounding a bit dumbfounded. “But perhaps a sleeping draught would help bring some… clarity.” Would her demons partake?
And then, to Kassandra’s great surprise, Katniss seems to waver, a flinch in the muscles of the hand knocking the arrow. There is a gleam in her eyes which shines of sorrow, and a vicious, clawed hand wrenches Kassandra’s guts as Katniss begins to spill her own. The Champion’s words were heavy and dug long furrows in the ground beneath them, like remnants of long ago glaciers shaping the world as they knew it; shaping the relationship between the two women.
After a time of silence, where Kassandra fought back her own tears, she inhaled a steady, sharp breath, and nodded. “I’m sorry you’ve suffered so,” she said, though none of the fault was her own, and, like outside forces on her own private pandemonium, her words could do nothing for the remaining scars. But even then Kassandra fought stubbornly against the offer of comfort. Katniss had suffered! She had lost love and been left with the remnants of it. Compared to that, Kassandra’s troubles cut like baby teeth at the gum.
“My own troubles are quite trivial, compared to that,” Kassandra explained, eager to assuage Katniss’ worries. “Mostly, they stem from the horrible thought that there is no one at the helm of the world-- at least, no one who cares.” And there, it was out, in as gentle of terms as she could possibly conure. The shame made her look away. But here was her fear-- that Gods were flippant and trifling beasts, beautiful and horrible, and looked upon them like ants on a log headed to a funeral pyre. And herein is the difference between Katniss’ hurts-- real, visceral, able to be touched and felt-- and Kassandra’s silly thoughts, dark monkeys on her shoulders digging invisible marks into her skin with vicious, intangible claws.
Kassandra is heavily aware of Finnick above her, hears him rustling in the boughs of the oak. She imagines the tree come winter, a barren and foreboding wolf oak, a sentinel of the Night Court and a symbol of Caligo. The thought brings a wry, sour smile to her face; maybe that’s why being in the Court unsettles her so. She is surrounded by facsimiles of the goddess who looked right in her eyes and mocked her. No wonder she feels so precarious on ground which once felt like home to her.
“Katniss,” Kassandra relents. As though that is all it will ever be. An impossibility. Katniss has been a stanchion of this community for as long as Kassandra had been in Novus. To separate the woman from the title? Hopeless. Still, Kas could imagine someone as humble and noble as Katniss flustering at being raised up, like the solid ground beneath you was far below and made of gold.
There is a tactile gentleness in the warrior radiating off of her in waves. It is comforting, despite Kassandra’s hesitancy to speak. The barrier is not outward. There is not an external force pressing her into such a corner. No, the palisade was existential, and a suffering from within. A hitch in her internal giddy-up that sent her wheels off-kilter. And while Kassandra does not imagine there is any ostensible balm which could be applied to her hurts and missed rhythms, she does admit that Katniss is only trying to help, so she listens. “It had not occurred to me to seek medical help,” Kass admitted, sounding a bit dumbfounded. “But perhaps a sleeping draught would help bring some… clarity.” Would her demons partake?
And then, to Kassandra’s great surprise, Katniss seems to waver, a flinch in the muscles of the hand knocking the arrow. There is a gleam in her eyes which shines of sorrow, and a vicious, clawed hand wrenches Kassandra’s guts as Katniss begins to spill her own. The Champion’s words were heavy and dug long furrows in the ground beneath them, like remnants of long ago glaciers shaping the world as they knew it; shaping the relationship between the two women.
After a time of silence, where Kassandra fought back her own tears, she inhaled a steady, sharp breath, and nodded. “I’m sorry you’ve suffered so,” she said, though none of the fault was her own, and, like outside forces on her own private pandemonium, her words could do nothing for the remaining scars. But even then Kassandra fought stubbornly against the offer of comfort. Katniss had suffered! She had lost love and been left with the remnants of it. Compared to that, Kassandra’s troubles cut like baby teeth at the gum.
“My own troubles are quite trivial, compared to that,” Kassandra explained, eager to assuage Katniss’ worries. “Mostly, they stem from the horrible thought that there is no one at the helm of the world-- at least, no one who cares.” And there, it was out, in as gentle of terms as she could possibly conure. The shame made her look away. But here was her fear-- that Gods were flippant and trifling beasts, beautiful and horrible, and looked upon them like ants on a log headed to a funeral pyre. And herein is the difference between Katniss’ hurts-- real, visceral, able to be touched and felt-- and Kassandra’s silly thoughts, dark monkeys on her shoulders digging invisible marks into her skin with vicious, intangible claws.
@
"Speech."
idk what it is about this thread that makes me word vomit but i'm sorry
