Rain pelted against the glass, although the mage hardly noticed it. Her attention was entirely focused on the long feather that sat lightly against the page of her book. Rich browns and golds ran through it, giving it a silky texture even to sight. Her fingers twitched involuntarily as she viciously repressed the urge to run her fingers across it. It had been the only clue left to her, and had proven as ephemeral as its original owner. Her fingers curled into her palms until her nails bit into the skin and her lips pressed into a thin white line. She had not spoken about it to anyone since her arrival here in Booty Bay. She would not speak of it- she shouldn’t even be allowing herself to think of it. Grief- heavy, familiar, oppressive- warred with a primal fury that she could barely control. Such a combination was dangerous in anyone, but perhaps even more so in someone skilled with the destructive power of fire.
Her breaths came in short, sharp bursts through her nose. Her nails bit harder into her palm as her fingers twitched again, aching at the remembered texture of the dozens of violently orange braids that had held the feather before. As though she were hearing it from a distance, a low moan registered in her ears long before she felt the sound tear itself loose from her chest and leave her vocal cords raw. She forced herself back to rigid control. Brae had searched as far as her resources could take her, and the only word she’d received was that he couldn’t be located and perhaps it was best to simply move on and let go. Her nostrils flared again, mind flitting over the images of their home, destroyed and in ruins. She’d taken it as a sign to retreat, because further down that road to madness lay only more heartbreak.
She gulped and slammed the book shut on the feather and everything it meant. She’d come here to hide, to rebuild yet again. He would have wanted that- for her to not wallow. To wallow was a sign of weakness and unworthy of either of them. Exiled though he had been, as she had been, in her own way- they both kept the ways of their upbringing, and the pride that had been drilled into them. It seemed to take forever to unclench her fists and relax her shoulders. Small drops of blood stained the linen she hastily wrapped the book in before shoving it into a drawer and out of her sight. Under her breath, eyes averted away from the drawer, a faint whisper slid through the room. The words had a melody all their own. The words were old and familiar- an Amani tribute to the dead.
Morning would arrive soon enough, and with it, all the translation work that entailed. These days, it kept them busy from dawn to dusk and beyond. Brae dragged herself into the bed, although she didn’t bother with the covers in the heat. Forgive me for giving up before I could even find out if I could give you a proper burial... The thoughts careened carelessly and against her will in the rain-soaked silence until darkness blessedly took them from her.
Her breaths came in short, sharp bursts through her nose. Her nails bit harder into her palm as her fingers twitched again, aching at the remembered texture of the dozens of violently orange braids that had held the feather before. As though she were hearing it from a distance, a low moan registered in her ears long before she felt the sound tear itself loose from her chest and leave her vocal cords raw. She forced herself back to rigid control. Brae had searched as far as her resources could take her, and the only word she’d received was that he couldn’t be located and perhaps it was best to simply move on and let go. Her nostrils flared again, mind flitting over the images of their home, destroyed and in ruins. She’d taken it as a sign to retreat, because further down that road to madness lay only more heartbreak.
She gulped and slammed the book shut on the feather and everything it meant. She’d come here to hide, to rebuild yet again. He would have wanted that- for her to not wallow. To wallow was a sign of weakness and unworthy of either of them. Exiled though he had been, as she had been, in her own way- they both kept the ways of their upbringing, and the pride that had been drilled into them. It seemed to take forever to unclench her fists and relax her shoulders. Small drops of blood stained the linen she hastily wrapped the book in before shoving it into a drawer and out of her sight. Under her breath, eyes averted away from the drawer, a faint whisper slid through the room. The words had a melody all their own. The words were old and familiar- an Amani tribute to the dead.
Morning would arrive soon enough, and with it, all the translation work that entailed. These days, it kept them busy from dawn to dusk and beyond. Brae dragged herself into the bed, although she didn’t bother with the covers in the heat. Forgive me for giving up before I could even find out if I could give you a proper burial... The thoughts careened carelessly and against her will in the rain-soaked silence until darkness blessedly took them from her.