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There was a tiny glare of disapproval that I wasn’t seeing, and it didn’t matter because I was feeling something fiery and prickly and sick that was wrapping around my esophagus and cutting off my circulation and burning the tears before they were shed and causing earthquakes (like Toto could make) to begin trembling within me, gentle and destructive and growing into something alarming, something I couldn’t control. The pain was everywhere and no matter where my eyes darted, I was faced with it, in the faces of gods, in the accusing eyes of mortals (what a weird word that is on my tongue; mortals, mortals), in the hoarse, angry voice of my Auntie as she grieved for her son, her son, the boy so pure and good that he died in the stead of a murderer (Hello, he says, and he cannot remember me). There was no escape and the burning in my throat was rising and something pathetic was welling inside me and my legs ached to run and my heart ached to hide and my body felt like it was crushing me and the sky split with my Pa’s wrath at the mortals’ bickering and my heart split with my Auntie’s agony at the god's inaction and it wasn’t their fault it wasn’t their fault it wasn’t their “Auntie” she said.
Her eyes were blank as she looked into her aunt’s crushed, blazing, tear-streaked face. Something static slipped through the air; one could feel it crackle against hide and mane. The voice that came from Roskuld’s lips was low, dead-pan--almost wondering as they addressed the Constrictor. “Auntie,” she said again, “It’s my fault.” Her chest rose and fell steadily, heavily, as though she were going to great lengths to draw breath. Her eyes were wide, glassy--expressionless. Her legs were splayed taut and rigid beneath her as though they were poised for running and some iron clamp kept her in place, keeping her firmly to the ground. She continued to stare at Ktulu--truly staring, as though she seemed afraid of moving any part of her body. Any part save her lips and her voice, which left her throat as concrete, forcibly scraped from what depths she pulled them from. There would be no hiding. “I could have stopped this,” came the voice--devoid of a spark, an attitude that usually placed the bite on the tongue. “It was in my power. I…knew it was the Moon God’s doing.” This was shoved from those lips, words that had attempted to scurry from the light of truth and condemnation. Those deadened eyes turned then to the God of Time, begging nothing, saying nothing. Simply looking; getting his attention. “I failed.” It fell simply from Roskuld’s mouth. There wasn’t even a note of the failure she professed, for the words were only words, and truth is nothing but. Her gaze turned back to Ktulu, slowly. “Your son died because of it,” she breathed, her chest continuing to heave, her body blank, the air crackling somewhere faintly. “Hate me if you need to hate.” She stood there, staring at her aunt--waiting for something to happen, it seemed. |
the Rift
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:: MURDER IN HELOVIA :: CONCLUSION
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 Please tag ROSKULD in every reply! | |||
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