Empress of Rags and Riches- Shilo/Graverobber- PG (will go up)- Chapter 3
Empress of Rags and Riches- Shilo/Graverobber- PG (will go up)- Chapter 3
He was talkative. Graverobber didn't ask if she was all right, he didn't ask her anything personal at all. She was waiting for it. The questions would come eventually, they had to. Though the story was playing above their heads, things were so much better from a first-person account, weren't they? Especially stories from the lips of bloody, broken girls.
He didn't just ramble. He made an attempt a time or two to engage her in conversation, but she just shook her head in reply, if she acknowledged his words at all, to everything he directed her way. He didn't seem overly bothered, though he kept shooting her those sharp glances that seemed to take in every detail at once. She noticed but didn't respond. Let him look. What had she to hide anymore? Let him see the mess she was, the dry, itchy blood flaking from her skin, dress dried stiff with the stuff. The wreck of a girl that she was.
When he seemed to have run out of things to say, he began singing to himself. Again, Shilo didn't mind. She was trying to pay close attention to the route. She didn't like being lost in her own city and wanted to learn the streets as best she could. She was having a hard time of it, though. She kept getting distracted by unwelcome, awful, crippling thoughts, as well as the quiet knowledge that there was no one to tell her to go or stay, what to do, how to do it. She had the freedom she had always longed for, but all she wanted to do was curl up in a ball in her hidey-hold of a bedroom and make everything go away.
He guided her through the graveyard, rather than up to the front door. She was briefly surprised, but then dismissed it. It was only natural for someone who made his living robbing graves to navigate through familiar territory. It was probably better this way. Her father had always kept the house locked up tight. If there was a spare key of any sort, she certainly didn't know about it.
She slipped her hand from his elbow and started to shrug the jacket off. “Thank you,” she said, offering it to him.
Graverobber took the jacket from her, shook it out with a muted flourish, and swung it onto his back. He seemed to hesitate, studying her. His face appeared stern. Whether it was the white makeup and dark lips set in a line on his face or the way his brows creased in the middle of his forehead, it was slightly intimidating. And yet, there was something hidden in his eyes that softened the look somehow. Shilo didn't know what to make of it, so she let it go as well. Her mind, now that the self-preserving numbness had worn off, felt entirely too full, and her heart was heavier than she'd known was possible.
“Take it easy, kid,” he finally said, before turning his back and walking away. Shilo watched him go with solemn eyes. Before he was out of vocal range, she called out, “Hey, Graverobber.”
He turned and took a few more back paces in her direction. “Yes?”
“How did you know I was there?”
Shilo watched the tall man as he adjusted his coat and pulled his hair from underneath the collar. “You think you're the only one who's hidden in a dark alley, kid?”
He seemed to genuinely want a response, so she shrugged. “I... I guess not.”
His deep chuckle seemed to settle on top of the graves and earth that stretched between them. “I know what to look for. Black dresses actually stand out in the shadows. Darker outline.” Shilo filed that tidbit of knowledge away on reflex, cataloged it to be looked at later. With that, he made the same half-bow he made the first time he escorted it home, and turned again, disappearing amongst the graves.
She wanted to call out again, to thank him again for helping her find her way home. Or maybe to ask if she was going to see him again. Or maybe fear of the empty house with all of its secrets and memories crept into her heart, sliding thin fingers around her throat and making her shiver with what probably wasn't just the cold, making her seek company for just a little longer.
Instead, Shilo turned and shoved open the door of the tomb. She shut the door behind her, but instead of crossing the tomb and heading up through the secret passage, she sat down at the foot of her mother's monument. She had hated and loved her father, as she had hated and mourned her mother. Now they were both gone, and Shilo was utterly alone.
She didn't cry any more that night. The meltdown by the dumpster seemed to have sated her for now, but she could feel the sorrow gathering strength inside of her. Instead of giving in to that sorrow, she forced herself to try to think of what she needed to do. She was finally free, free to be the grown woman she knew she was meant to be. But unfortunately, that freedom didn't include having someone look after her and keep her life hassle free. She needed to decide for herself what to do. What would GeneCo and the Largos do with her father's body? And would they want to see her about the matter of the will? Part of Shilo hoped that the old man was just crazy, that he hadn't really willed her GeneCo.
And what was she going to do with herself, once the matter of GeneCo was resolved in some way or another? She didn't ever have some little girl fantasy about what she would be when she grew up. Shilo had spent most of her childhood waiting for her blood disease to kill her, to suck her dry from the inside out. Her father had never so much as hinted that she was in danger of death as long as she followed the doctor's orders, but Shilo, around age nine or so, had become convinced that she was doomed to share her mother's fate. Her father had tried to reassure her, saying that her condition was well in hand, that she was being ridiculous. She wouldn't die as long as she stayed in her room and took her medicine and wore her mask, her father insisted.
Shilo stopped the train of memory in its tracks. There was no disease. It was some sick creation of her father. Maybe her mother hadn't even died of a disease. At the opera they said her father had killed her mother. Who's to say he hadn't created one for her mother? Shilo didn't know what to think. She felt she would shatter completely, and forced her mint to turn away from the implications.
The smoldering rage that she bore inside her since she was a little girl has gone up like straw. In one mighty rush her rage had inflamed her, only to be put out just as quickly by her father's blood. Thoughts of her father at all threatened to derail her completely. She knew she needed to sort out her thoughts, a task which seemed laughable to her. She actually chuckled out loud at the thought of putting herself back together again. The sound echoed in her mother's tomb. Muted white lights from the world outside streamed in through the window in the door, washing Shilo in shadows of blue and grey that very nearly hid the blood rubbed at it again. Slowly at first, trying to brush it away. It was stubborn stuff, sticking to her hairless skin like paint. The more it resisted, the harder Shilo rubbed, until she was scratching at her arms and shoulders with a little too much much enthusiasm. The pain from her fingernails digging into her flesh only made her more anxious, so she scratched even harder until an all-too familiar feeling made itself known.
The first thing she always noticed was her heart. It wasn't that it was beating faster or slower, so much that it was beating louder, fuller. The sound echoed throughout her entire body and as it did, her lungs got tighter and it was more and more difficult to draw in air. At the same time her stomach cramped, sending pain shooting up and down her abdomen. Automatically Shilo reached for her pills, but they were gone. They weren't needed, they were poison. She had left them at the opera. Shilo struggled to keep herself from panicking. She didn't have a condition! She wasn't really sick, right? Why was this happening?
The world swam gently before she sank into the darkness.
He was talkative. Graverobber didn't ask if she was all right, he didn't ask her anything personal at all. She was waiting for it. The questions would come eventually, they had to. Though the story was playing above their heads, things were so much better from a first-person account, weren't they? Especially stories from the lips of bloody, broken girls.
He didn't just ramble. He made an attempt a time or two to engage her in conversation, but she just shook her head in reply, if she acknowledged his words at all, to everything he directed her way. He didn't seem overly bothered, though he kept shooting her those sharp glances that seemed to take in every detail at once. She noticed but didn't respond. Let him look. What had she to hide anymore? Let him see the mess she was, the dry, itchy blood flaking from her skin, dress dried stiff with the stuff. The wreck of a girl that she was.
When he seemed to have run out of things to say, he began singing to himself. Again, Shilo didn't mind. She was trying to pay close attention to the route. She didn't like being lost in her own city and wanted to learn the streets as best she could. She was having a hard time of it, though. She kept getting distracted by unwelcome, awful, crippling thoughts, as well as the quiet knowledge that there was no one to tell her to go or stay, what to do, how to do it. She had the freedom she had always longed for, but all she wanted to do was curl up in a ball in her hidey-hold of a bedroom and make everything go away.
He guided her through the graveyard, rather than up to the front door. She was briefly surprised, but then dismissed it. It was only natural for someone who made his living robbing graves to navigate through familiar territory. It was probably better this way. Her father had always kept the house locked up tight. If there was a spare key of any sort, she certainly didn't know about it.
She slipped her hand from his elbow and started to shrug the jacket off. “Thank you,” she said, offering it to him.
Graverobber took the jacket from her, shook it out with a muted flourish, and swung it onto his back. He seemed to hesitate, studying her. His face appeared stern. Whether it was the white makeup and dark lips set in a line on his face or the way his brows creased in the middle of his forehead, it was slightly intimidating. And yet, there was something hidden in his eyes that softened the look somehow. Shilo didn't know what to make of it, so she let it go as well. Her mind, now that the self-preserving numbness had worn off, felt entirely too full, and her heart was heavier than she'd known was possible.
“Take it easy, kid,” he finally said, before turning his back and walking away. Shilo watched him go with solemn eyes. Before he was out of vocal range, she called out, “Hey, Graverobber.”
He turned and took a few more back paces in her direction. “Yes?”
“How did you know I was there?”
Shilo watched the tall man as he adjusted his coat and pulled his hair from underneath the collar. “You think you're the only one who's hidden in a dark alley, kid?”
He seemed to genuinely want a response, so she shrugged. “I... I guess not.”
His deep chuckle seemed to settle on top of the graves and earth that stretched between them. “I know what to look for. Black dresses actually stand out in the shadows. Darker outline.” Shilo filed that tidbit of knowledge away on reflex, cataloged it to be looked at later. With that, he made the same half-bow he made the first time he escorted it home, and turned again, disappearing amongst the graves.
She wanted to call out again, to thank him again for helping her find her way home. Or maybe to ask if she was going to see him again. Or maybe fear of the empty house with all of its secrets and memories crept into her heart, sliding thin fingers around her throat and making her shiver with what probably wasn't just the cold, making her seek company for just a little longer.
Instead, Shilo turned and shoved open the door of the tomb. She shut the door behind her, but instead of crossing the tomb and heading up through the secret passage, she sat down at the foot of her mother's monument. She had hated and loved her father, as she had hated and mourned her mother. Now they were both gone, and Shilo was utterly alone.
She didn't cry any more that night. The meltdown by the dumpster seemed to have sated her for now, but she could feel the sorrow gathering strength inside of her. Instead of giving in to that sorrow, she forced herself to try to think of what she needed to do. She was finally free, free to be the grown woman she knew she was meant to be. But unfortunately, that freedom didn't include having someone look after her and keep her life hassle free. She needed to decide for herself what to do. What would GeneCo and the Largos do with her father's body? And would they want to see her about the matter of the will? Part of Shilo hoped that the old man was just crazy, that he hadn't really willed her GeneCo.
And what was she going to do with herself, once the matter of GeneCo was resolved in some way or another? She didn't ever have some little girl fantasy about what she would be when she grew up. Shilo had spent most of her childhood waiting for her blood disease to kill her, to suck her dry from the inside out. Her father had never so much as hinted that she was in danger of death as long as she followed the doctor's orders, but Shilo, around age nine or so, had become convinced that she was doomed to share her mother's fate. Her father had tried to reassure her, saying that her condition was well in hand, that she was being ridiculous. She wouldn't die as long as she stayed in her room and took her medicine and wore her mask, her father insisted.
Shilo stopped the train of memory in its tracks. There was no disease. It was some sick creation of her father. Maybe her mother hadn't even died of a disease. At the opera they said her father had killed her mother. Who's to say he hadn't created one for her mother? Shilo didn't know what to think. She felt she would shatter completely, and forced her mint to turn away from the implications.
The smoldering rage that she bore inside her since she was a little girl has gone up like straw. In one mighty rush her rage had inflamed her, only to be put out just as quickly by her father's blood. Thoughts of her father at all threatened to derail her completely. She knew she needed to sort out her thoughts, a task which seemed laughable to her. She actually chuckled out loud at the thought of putting herself back together again. The sound echoed in her mother's tomb. Muted white lights from the world outside streamed in through the window in the door, washing Shilo in shadows of blue and grey that very nearly hid the blood rubbed at it again. Slowly at first, trying to brush it away. It was stubborn stuff, sticking to her hairless skin like paint. The more it resisted, the harder Shilo rubbed, until she was scratching at her arms and shoulders with a little too much much enthusiasm. The pain from her fingernails digging into her flesh only made her more anxious, so she scratched even harder until an all-too familiar feeling made itself known.
The first thing she always noticed was her heart. It wasn't that it was beating faster or slower, so much that it was beating louder, fuller. The sound echoed throughout her entire body and as it did, her lungs got tighter and it was more and more difficult to draw in air. At the same time her stomach cramped, sending pain shooting up and down her abdomen. Automatically Shilo reached for her pills, but they were gone. They weren't needed, they were poison. She had left them at the opera. Shilo struggled to keep herself from panicking. She didn't have a condition! She wasn't really sick, right? Why was this happening?
The world swam gently before she sank into the darkness.