After everything
FOIP of various kinds and in large amounts again. It appears wemic is being angst!wemic and not reacting well post event >.<
Edit: bugger, to forget the lj cut on THAT one....
++++
It takes a while for everything to sink in, the locked and glazed-over sheath surrounding her emotions still in place on the cart ride back home, her eyes still sharp, weapon in hand, the pain of her bags on her shoulders.
The emotions are still frosted over and suspended as she walks through Wahotep, it still feels like a dream to hear cheerful trade going on around her, and although she speaks, looks and laughs as normal, behind it she knows her eyes lack their normal sparkle.
The shrine is alien and clean as she walks into the last rays of sunlight falling on the flagstones. Evening prayer has finished and night is about to fall. She still feels rootless, drifting on the wind in a place where she doesn't quite belong. A hand clutches the edge of the altar, feeling she should kneel and pray. She kneels, certainly... common words on her lips, easy words on the surface she doesn't have to think about. Everything looks normal, but she can see the emptiness in her as well as the Lords can. She wants to cry, to let everything spill out, but there are people here. She cannot let the mask fall, she must be strong and contained and there is something underneath that blanket that it starting to move.
It catches up to her as she finally closes the door and locks it, leaning against it with her bags still hanging from her. It is the sight of the unassumingly quiet and empty furniture that does it, the only people watching those who care and ask nothing of her but that she not catch them with her claws or the armour she works with. There is peace and quiet and the sense of home and peace and... and the end of being strong and...
She collapses amid her bags and lets herself cry, elbows resting on one at each side, neck burning with the weight of her bag as she slumps and puts her face in her hands. It doesn't matter now. She doesn't have to be smart and even vaguely competent or worry about the fate of her friends or the world. She can just be Mojay, no, not Mojay, just a little amusari wemic tired and exhausted from an uneventful but far too long weekend.
She can cry now, she can cry for all the tears the people around her couldn't shed. She could cry for the land as it died, she could cry for lost innocence, the loss of a life that had ended when its light died, the corruption and the confusion and the hatred that corrupted and poisoned the world, threatening to stifle it and rip out everything good and bright.
And so, alone in her small set of rooms in a small city that no-one particularly cared about, a little wemic cried for the world.
Edit: bugger, to forget the lj cut on THAT one....
++++
It takes a while for everything to sink in, the locked and glazed-over sheath surrounding her emotions still in place on the cart ride back home, her eyes still sharp, weapon in hand, the pain of her bags on her shoulders.
The emotions are still frosted over and suspended as she walks through Wahotep, it still feels like a dream to hear cheerful trade going on around her, and although she speaks, looks and laughs as normal, behind it she knows her eyes lack their normal sparkle.
The shrine is alien and clean as she walks into the last rays of sunlight falling on the flagstones. Evening prayer has finished and night is about to fall. She still feels rootless, drifting on the wind in a place where she doesn't quite belong. A hand clutches the edge of the altar, feeling she should kneel and pray. She kneels, certainly... common words on her lips, easy words on the surface she doesn't have to think about. Everything looks normal, but she can see the emptiness in her as well as the Lords can. She wants to cry, to let everything spill out, but there are people here. She cannot let the mask fall, she must be strong and contained and there is something underneath that blanket that it starting to move.
It catches up to her as she finally closes the door and locks it, leaning against it with her bags still hanging from her. It is the sight of the unassumingly quiet and empty furniture that does it, the only people watching those who care and ask nothing of her but that she not catch them with her claws or the armour she works with. There is peace and quiet and the sense of home and peace and... and the end of being strong and...
She collapses amid her bags and lets herself cry, elbows resting on one at each side, neck burning with the weight of her bag as she slumps and puts her face in her hands. It doesn't matter now. She doesn't have to be smart and even vaguely competent or worry about the fate of her friends or the world. She can just be Mojay, no, not Mojay, just a little amusari wemic tired and exhausted from an uneventful but far too long weekend.
She can cry now, she can cry for all the tears the people around her couldn't shed. She could cry for the land as it died, she could cry for lost innocence, the loss of a life that had ended when its light died, the corruption and the confusion and the hatred that corrupted and poisoned the world, threatening to stifle it and rip out everything good and bright.
And so, alone in her small set of rooms in a small city that no-one particularly cared about, a little wemic cried for the world.