Acara pinches the ridge between her dominant eyes, lids fluttering shut to match the other sets (which she rarely opens) as she sighs heavily.
“He’ll come around,” Taros says, placing a fore-hand on her shoulder. How sickening.
“And why, pray tell, should he?” I ask sharply. “I fail to see why she deserves protection from the consequences of her own actions.”
Taros shakes his head in disdain as Acara freezes beside him. “Don’t start, not now Ravello,” he snaps.
“He does kinda have a point,” Aurelia mumbles to my left and Acara’s eyes fly open in surprise, mouth slightly agape. I must admit, I too find it… unexpected.
“What do you mean Auri?” she asks hesitantly, head tilting away as if to avoid the answer.
Aurelia looks for all the world like she had not intended to be heard. Her gaze darts around as though she’s attempting to figure out who spoke, as though the words were not hers, before landing on the floor in resignation.
“I- You never watch us Weave anymore and when you do, it’s like you’re not really- That you don’t really-” She stares at her hands, still cradling her latest project, sighing lightly. “Nevermind.”
She glances nervously at the Chamber entrance, heedless of Acara’s attempts to question her further.
“I should probably go check on him,” she announces hopping out of her chair, notebook and project vanishing with a flick of her hand, before walking toward the doors.
She shuffles awkwardly to a stop as she’s passing Acara, who is now staring blankly between her and Callista’s empty chair. “Sorry A,” she whispers, before flashing her a bright smile. “I’ll send you a report asap, ok?”
And with that she races out the door in a flash of white and the rustle of feathers.
“Well,” I say, stepping away from the wall towards the centre of the room (where the two remaining Weavers are paying little attention to my presence).
Taros is muttering something to Acara, whose eyes remain unfocused as she leans into the supportive hand on her shoulder. I find myself acutely aware that I am now alone with them for the first time in centuries.
“It seems like the show is over!” I declare, dismiss the rising concerns in favour of spreading my arms in grand acknowledgement. “Not one but two exits after only a few minutes shared in a room together, just the five of us. You really are doing a wonderful job, dear sister, truly brilliant leadership! No one brings us together quite like you do.”
The words are sharp and venomous, and I take great joy in tossing them carelessly over my shoulder as I pivot towards the exit.
“Now, as entertaining as it’s been, I should be on my way,” I call back to them both, not bothering to look as I stride towards the exit. My heels crack across the floor and cut through the stillness rather satisfactorily.
“Ravello, wait,” Acara pleads, and I pause in surprise. The sound is oddly familiar, though it belongs now to another lifetime.
It took me a long time refining my word-weaving before I was advanced enough to not require words at all. I used to practice with a house of cards, listening to my voice flitting through the gaps. I would grasp the thread of sound as it hung between my throat and the cards, feeling how it stretched and thinned between my fingers. The louder I spoke the thinner the thread, until finally, my breath knocked them down and the string snapped, fading out of my Sight.
I used to marvel at how even a whisper, as light as air itself, could scatter the foundations so easily.
On Acara, wistfulness feels very similar. Her speech forms a tenuous thread, here one moment, gone the next. I would not build an empire on wistful words. I keep walking.
A set of footsteps join mine.
“Ravello please, I-”
Her fingers wrap around my wrist, and I whirl around before I can think, conjuring clawed silver thimbles to my fingers, twisting her voice around them sharply and pulling it tight. She’s gurgling ill-advised syllables around the silver weight on her tongue. She would not be able to see it, it’s not in her gift, but I know she can feel it, her jaw fully extended under the pressure.
She has the gall to look betrayed, eyes wide and pleading, almost… scared. Almost is not enough. She deserves to know what it is to beg for mercy.
I reach for the well of power within me only to hit a barrier, and I hiss in fury at the reminder of what was done to me.
“Let me make this perfectly clear, Empress,” I spit, casting her hand from my wrist. “Your words mean nothing to me. Unless you have further business to discuss, I am leaving.”
I release her voice, striking it with my talons as I do, a final parting message that I know will surely sting. Perhaps it will have scored her tongue. One can only hope.
Taros is gritting his teeth as he marches uselessly to the side of his beloved leader. Acara firmly waves off his concern, retreating to stand alone.
Taros knows better than to physically interfere in disputes, not when his powers are mostly forbidden outside of our work. Despite that, his fingers reach towards me as though he’s weighing up the risks. I turn my back on him, forcing the tremors from my limbs as I relax my hands at my sides.
It is nonsensical, I am at a unique disadvantage and yet, despite the threat he poses I walk towards the wards instead of dispersing my form, giving him longer to consider his choices. I ignore the horror of leaving myself so exposed in favour of one thought alone – let him try. They will not see me cower.
There’s shuffling behind me and I force myself not to react, though I stop breathing in anticipation of their next move, unsure if it is Taros or Acara that I hear. Checking the thread of sound would leave me distracted, something I cannot afford no matter how much I wish to know the answer.
I may not need the air to survive, but the discomfort is there nonetheless. After all, words are fundamental to my gift and they are weaker without air to conduct them. Still, the sensation provides me a measure of control and I need as much as I can get to escape this encounter unharmed.
A hushed argument begins at my back and my chest thrums with unease. I sense the threads stretching towards me, their words reaching for any flesh they can find.
I flinch as one tangles around my arm, and I walk faster, hoping they don’t notice the shift in my demeanour. The whispers grow sharper and another brushes my chest, digging in sharply beneath one of my ribs. This shouldn’t be happening.
One of them raises their voice, I don’t take the time to figure out whom, too distracted by the spike of pain it causes. In an instant I have unbound my form, racing for the door with a few metres still left to go. It’s a weakness I know I will pay for later.
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