[fic] 30 Angsty Words [Berserk]: 13
13 繋いだ手 (Hand In Hand)
“You light her.”
Her voice is so loud in his ears that it is like the sudden thunder of his heartbeat stopping and starting again, racing to make up for the missed beat. Then another sound, something that vibrates on a level beneath the crackling of the angry torch, so faint he can only hear it in his head.
The keening of a dying animal.
Then he realizes that there are tears in her eyes. She’s crying. He’s made her cry. Somehow the horror of this is worse than what he’s already facing. The situation’s so warped-they’re so warped-that it makes perfect sense to him. The shock is gone. This is how things were with her-so much was shocking and yet so little of it left an impact. Because it’s her. Because she isn’t normal. Because they aren’t normal.
He is distant now. His hand doesn’t shake at all when he wraps his fingers around the rough wood-a splinter lodges in his palm and he almost lets go, but she tightens her grip, tightens her grip around his hand and the torch so that they are melding into one, so twisted it fits them suitably. The splinter drives into his hand. Somewhere it hurts.
He is not thinking about that dark bedroom where his mother waited for him, wasted and ill. He is not thinking about the feel of her spine and ribs through her flesh when he massaged the pain away. He is not thinking about all her hopes and admonitions and the world outside that darkness which held absolutely no promises. He is not thinking about his surreal visits where he came, unrecognized, the son she had always wanted him to be and suddenly not her son at all.
He is not feeling guilty. He is not angry. He is not horrified. He is not here.
He is not stopping.
He only stares as the first small twig catches flame. It leaps and grows and bounds and soon it is licking up her feet, clinging to the nightgown that hangs so heavy and shapeless on her insubstantial frame. When it reaches her hair, they are still so close he can hear it crackle and crinkle and its stench briefly overcomes the smell of cooking flesh.
He is not looking away.
He can’t look away. The only other place to look is her face. He can’t look at her now. Can’t bear to see her expression.
That strange unearthly delight lit by the fire swallowing his mother.
And just like that, they burn away all his other ties, hands clasped together, drawn closer by the warmth of flesh against flesh and the bonfire of a human sacrifice.
This is all he has to give her. This is all she asks.
“Swear to it again. I am your master. Your only master. Until now… and from now on.”
He swore it.
“You light her.”
Her voice is so loud in his ears that it is like the sudden thunder of his heartbeat stopping and starting again, racing to make up for the missed beat. Then another sound, something that vibrates on a level beneath the crackling of the angry torch, so faint he can only hear it in his head.
The keening of a dying animal.
Then he realizes that there are tears in her eyes. She’s crying. He’s made her cry. Somehow the horror of this is worse than what he’s already facing. The situation’s so warped-they’re so warped-that it makes perfect sense to him. The shock is gone. This is how things were with her-so much was shocking and yet so little of it left an impact. Because it’s her. Because she isn’t normal. Because they aren’t normal.
He is distant now. His hand doesn’t shake at all when he wraps his fingers around the rough wood-a splinter lodges in his palm and he almost lets go, but she tightens her grip, tightens her grip around his hand and the torch so that they are melding into one, so twisted it fits them suitably. The splinter drives into his hand. Somewhere it hurts.
He is not thinking about that dark bedroom where his mother waited for him, wasted and ill. He is not thinking about the feel of her spine and ribs through her flesh when he massaged the pain away. He is not thinking about all her hopes and admonitions and the world outside that darkness which held absolutely no promises. He is not thinking about his surreal visits where he came, unrecognized, the son she had always wanted him to be and suddenly not her son at all.
He is not feeling guilty. He is not angry. He is not horrified. He is not here.
He is not stopping.
He only stares as the first small twig catches flame. It leaps and grows and bounds and soon it is licking up her feet, clinging to the nightgown that hangs so heavy and shapeless on her insubstantial frame. When it reaches her hair, they are still so close he can hear it crackle and crinkle and its stench briefly overcomes the smell of cooking flesh.
He is not looking away.
He can’t look away. The only other place to look is her face. He can’t look at her now. Can’t bear to see her expression.
That strange unearthly delight lit by the fire swallowing his mother.
And just like that, they burn away all his other ties, hands clasped together, drawn closer by the warmth of flesh against flesh and the bonfire of a human sacrifice.
This is all he has to give her. This is all she asks.
“Swear to it again. I am your master. Your only master. Until now… and from now on.”
He swore it.