What Lies Beneath, Part 3.
After Aidan left the room, she tried to engage herself with the group's discussion. It was difficult. Her beast wanted to take over, the part of herself that would not feel but inflict hurt on others as an expression of this pain. Her ghost wanted to take over, the part of herself that would say or do anything as an escape from boredom. She managed somehow to retain control, although it cost her much, and she grew steadily more tired as the evening went on.
Faces and words moved around her, or did she move around them? Was she dancing around all the Kindred in the city, or was she in one place as they danced around her? No, she couldn't move, or could she? She felt herself walking with Father, felt herself glide along the hallway in front of him. Had she sprouted wings which were keeping her from stumbling, holding her up enough for her to retain her grace? No. It was Father who had learned an astonishing new power. Somehow, they had gone outside before he displayed it.
He was doing something then, something to regain his sanity? This was a good night for him, he was less the brute, more himself than the last time he had visited this city. Or was he? Was her perception of him akin to her perception of having wings? She knew he could feel her pain, her confusion, but he respected her desire to maintain the appearance of normalcy. Or was it that he didn't want her to embarass him? Or was it that he truly did not know? Perhaps this was not even her Father, but no. No. This was Tschitquihilleu Elauwit. But was Tschitquihilleu Elauwit her father? She thought so.
This night was like walking in a dream, not even her own dream, but someone else's. She couldn't focus, her movements felt random or perhaps dictated by something else (God? Could it be? She would have to speak with Luther about that...but what if This One...) and something kept invading the periphery of her confusion. A bat, a man. She wished he would not interfere, wished he would discontinue butchering a game that was rapidly offending Father. She needed Father now, as she had never needed a father before in mortal life or this one. She had never needed support before this night, although she had taken it.
She was so tired. She wanted to sleep but she would not do it here.
And then there was Pierce. He was through with his duties and wanted to discuss something. They went to a side room, and she heard him, but could not listen. Their words moved around her, or did she move around them? Was she dancing around all the syllables in the conversation, or was she in one place as they danced around her? She couldn't move, or could she? Aidan entered the room and spoke of glass flowers. She felt herself rise and move toward him, his voice's tone pulling her like the wind pulled leaves from a branch and she feltr herself glide across the room in front of him. Had she sprouted wings...
He was doing something then, something to regain his sanity. This was a bad night for him...she knew he couldn't feel her pain, and he respected her strength now, strength that was drawing itself back from her even as he spoke, so only her will (wings? did she have wings?) enabled her to stand up straight and take his hand in hers. His eyes became the center of everything, became a pool with a black center. Perhaps this was not even her love, but no. No. This was Aidan Bishop. But was Aidan Bishop her love? She thought so.
He left the room and her strength was gone. She was falling, softly like snow she thought, but something was under her and it moved her. Was this what it felt like for snow to fall on the wing of a bird and for that bird to move? But she was the winged one, wasn't she? And then her movements were dictated by something else (God? Could it be? She would have to speak to This One about that...but what if Luther...) and something was invading the periphery of her wingspan. A wolf, a man.
And then she was in the arms of her Father. She could feel that the shirt with which she had packed her wound had fallen out. The dress would be stained, ruined. No matter. She would make wings out of it.
She slept.
Faces and words moved around her, or did she move around them? Was she dancing around all the Kindred in the city, or was she in one place as they danced around her? No, she couldn't move, or could she? She felt herself walking with Father, felt herself glide along the hallway in front of him. Had she sprouted wings which were keeping her from stumbling, holding her up enough for her to retain her grace? No. It was Father who had learned an astonishing new power. Somehow, they had gone outside before he displayed it.
He was doing something then, something to regain his sanity? This was a good night for him, he was less the brute, more himself than the last time he had visited this city. Or was he? Was her perception of him akin to her perception of having wings? She knew he could feel her pain, her confusion, but he respected her desire to maintain the appearance of normalcy. Or was it that he didn't want her to embarass him? Or was it that he truly did not know? Perhaps this was not even her Father, but no. No. This was Tschitquihilleu Elauwit. But was Tschitquihilleu Elauwit her father? She thought so.
This night was like walking in a dream, not even her own dream, but someone else's. She couldn't focus, her movements felt random or perhaps dictated by something else (God? Could it be? She would have to speak with Luther about that...but what if This One...) and something kept invading the periphery of her confusion. A bat, a man. She wished he would not interfere, wished he would discontinue butchering a game that was rapidly offending Father. She needed Father now, as she had never needed a father before in mortal life or this one. She had never needed support before this night, although she had taken it.
She was so tired. She wanted to sleep but she would not do it here.
And then there was Pierce. He was through with his duties and wanted to discuss something. They went to a side room, and she heard him, but could not listen. Their words moved around her, or did she move around them? Was she dancing around all the syllables in the conversation, or was she in one place as they danced around her? She couldn't move, or could she? Aidan entered the room and spoke of glass flowers. She felt herself rise and move toward him, his voice's tone pulling her like the wind pulled leaves from a branch and she feltr herself glide across the room in front of him. Had she sprouted wings...
He was doing something then, something to regain his sanity. This was a bad night for him...she knew he couldn't feel her pain, and he respected her strength now, strength that was drawing itself back from her even as he spoke, so only her will (wings? did she have wings?) enabled her to stand up straight and take his hand in hers. His eyes became the center of everything, became a pool with a black center. Perhaps this was not even her love, but no. No. This was Aidan Bishop. But was Aidan Bishop her love? She thought so.
He left the room and her strength was gone. She was falling, softly like snow she thought, but something was under her and it moved her. Was this what it felt like for snow to fall on the wing of a bird and for that bird to move? But she was the winged one, wasn't she? And then her movements were dictated by something else (God? Could it be? She would have to speak to This One about that...but what if Luther...) and something was invading the periphery of her wingspan. A wolf, a man.
And then she was in the arms of her Father. She could feel that the shirt with which she had packed her wound had fallen out. The dress would be stained, ruined. No matter. She would make wings out of it.
She slept.