11-05-2021, 07:51 PM
Having been raised by the fire-eyed woman, Sickle’s disbelieving snort at his mention of positive change in their mother elicits a chuckle of his own. It’s accompanied by a grin, because he knows that if he’d been told the same thing six months ago he would have thought it impossible as well.
But it had not been impossible after all, and their mother is better.
His mother, Sickle emphasizes. Her mother is Wishbone, and Malik remembers the story of their father’s bloodless victory in Tephra. Where had the purple once-queen gone? Had it truly been a bloodless takeover, or had Gale simply hidden the bodies? Malik is curious, but something in the way Sickle’s voice has gone soft tells him that he shouldn’t prod.
He’s attempting to smile reassuringly, the way he would for Myrna, when she speaks again, asking if they’d hurt him.
The way he stills is born out of long habit, of knowing that he can avoid detection if he is still. If he is not seen, he cannot be a target, and he had mastered the shift into a jumping spider at a remarkably young age.
“I’m fine,” he repeats, because he believes it to be true. Had his parents hurt him?
Only when he deserved it.
He had gotten better at not deserving it, as he had once been certain all children do. The way his mother treats Myrna has made him doubtful, that and the way Mazikeen’s orange eyes went sad whenever he would flinch away without conscious thought. Sickle’s concerned gaze casts further doubt, and the tight sort of sharpness in his belly grows more intense.
(Bits of memory begin to trickle back, so slowly that he does not even recognize them as what they are.)
His mother is better now, he reminds himself. “She’s never mean to Myrna. She’s better now.” That is true, a bright and certain beacon that he can cling too even as Sickle’s presence begins to brush away the darkness that has lain so thick upon his mind.
He recalls, with blinding clarity, the sensation of his heart exploding, and his father’s satisfied nod.
Malik flinches and pulls back, away from Sickle. “Did you do that?!” He accuses, unaware that she plays no role in the return of his memory, save her presence as the impetus.
@Sickle
But it had not been impossible after all, and their mother is better.
His mother, Sickle emphasizes. Her mother is Wishbone, and Malik remembers the story of their father’s bloodless victory in Tephra. Where had the purple once-queen gone? Had it truly been a bloodless takeover, or had Gale simply hidden the bodies? Malik is curious, but something in the way Sickle’s voice has gone soft tells him that he shouldn’t prod.
He’s attempting to smile reassuringly, the way he would for Myrna, when she speaks again, asking if they’d hurt him.
The way he stills is born out of long habit, of knowing that he can avoid detection if he is still. If he is not seen, he cannot be a target, and he had mastered the shift into a jumping spider at a remarkably young age.
“I’m fine,” he repeats, because he believes it to be true. Had his parents hurt him?
Only when he deserved it.
He had gotten better at not deserving it, as he had once been certain all children do. The way his mother treats Myrna has made him doubtful, that and the way Mazikeen’s orange eyes went sad whenever he would flinch away without conscious thought. Sickle’s concerned gaze casts further doubt, and the tight sort of sharpness in his belly grows more intense.
(Bits of memory begin to trickle back, so slowly that he does not even recognize them as what they are.)
His mother is better now, he reminds himself. “She’s never mean to Myrna. She’s better now.” That is true, a bright and certain beacon that he can cling too even as Sickle’s presence begins to brush away the darkness that has lain so thick upon his mind.
He recalls, with blinding clarity, the sensation of his heart exploding, and his father’s satisfied nod.
Malik flinches and pulls back, away from Sickle. “Did you do that?!” He accuses, unaware that she plays no role in the return of his memory, save her presence as the impetus.
@Sickle