Night had fallen, and daybreak would soon be upon them. A new day, with a new leader, a new parent. One she had a hand in choosing. Though she said nothing as she walked beside her fellow Silverfang, there was a strange and unspeakable weight upon her shoulders. One made all the heavier by guilt, by disappointment, and the looks on their faces once the verdict was cast. Her verdict, or at least, a verdict much the same.
It was because of this, that the return to her cabin seem to take eons. And even when she had arrived, she hardly realized it-- with her tongue clenched tightly in her teeth.
Wordlessly, Aricie did up the lock-- a simple metal bar, like those found on bathroom stalls in airports. Until now, she had never seen fit to use them. But tonight... tonight would be different. A night when she would grant herself a simple comfort not once permitted since her arrival.
However quiet, her footsteps felt loud enough to quiet a minefield as she crossed the floor to her bedstand. There was a lonely candle waiting there, melted almost to its last after long hours of study. Indifferently, she struck a match from the small book set squarely to the right of the handle, and held it to the blackened wick until the flame consumed it. With painstaking stiffness, she placed the matchbook exactly where it had been moments before, and the used stick beside four others of its kind, half leaning against the side of the wax receptacle.
Their voices sounded like echoes, and resonated like a tuning fork. They weren't real, but she could hear them. Replaying over and over in her head, like scenes in a poorly directed film.
"I was on my own.. killed my best friend... This place represents a family for me. That is why I want the job."
"No, this is wrong! The whole challenge may have to be forfeit!"
"Why aren't you Cliath yet? You seem pretty bad ass."
"It's an obvious bias. You're going to make a horrible Philodox."
"They're worse than traitors! They're usurpers! You canno', must no', let them win..."
"What do you have to compare me to?"
She hadn't wanted to do it to him. To make him hurt. He was a friend to her, and a good man. Tender hearted, but a good man. Brave, cunning, strong willed. Did he not deserve another chance? Perhaps he would have learned his lesson after speaking with her, been better.
Within her heart of hearts, she hoped that she had done some good for Shoots,' that he would not hold her obstinacy against her. Hopefully, when the red haze of anger had passed over him, he would see that she had been given an opportunity to make the best choice for the good of all. That she was trying to make the best decision.
A hard lesson was a lesson best learned. If he was worthy of the position, he would have tried before it counted. He would have been firmer, more confident. He simply had other things to worry about. He was too concerned with his responsibilities, with being liked-- and as she had been taught by Speaks with Ancestors' Wisdom, it was far better to be feared than it was to be loved.
Of course, there were other reasons. The words of Speaks with Ancestors' Wisdom struck the back of her mind like a hot iron.
Despite all evidence to the contrary, Shoots was a good Ragabash, able to figure out her reasons, and to tell her what some part of her wanted to hear. Able to vanish in plain sight, and to be as cutting with his tongue as with any blade.
It was like a slap in the face. Even thinking about it made her cheeks burn, and the weight in her chest all the more difficult to bear. Without a doubt, He would have taught the Shadow Lord Cub well, for the same reasons Speaks with Ancestors' Wisdom had given she and Syrus those weapons. For the same reason Jack Gallows endured her lengthy philosophical discussions.
There was a kindship there, some recognition that something binding was shared. If all went well, the Shadow Lord would be Shoots' packmate in a few months' time. Worse, he could show him how to undo the reserves of strength she had worked so hard to muster. Speaks with Ancestor's Wisdom was strong, but aged; Syrus had breeding, without wit. The way she saw it, she was the future of her tribe on the sept. And the challenge was her opportunity to prove she was capable as a leader. Perhaps she was. She and Breaks the Spiral seemed to have come to the same conclusion. Somehow. Whether he was trusting her judgment, or had his own reasons for appointing Lithias, she could not say.
What she did know, was that if Chris threatened her position, if he threatened the future of her people, there would be hell to pay. She would sooner die than allow a "treacherous usurper" to take the crown, so to speak, and would act against anyone who might enable such a thing. Bemused, she wondered if his Theurge tribesman would be as much of an idiot as her own. Perhaps then, the score would be more even, and she would not have to be four Garou in one.
She felt like she had to be. All the time. For every blow flung at her, she had to strike back. To prove her superiority. To keep them looking up to her, as she was certain they did. Her efforts had not gone unnoticed by the rest of the Sept, surely. Would Breaks the Spiral have allowed her to participate in a challenge if he did not think her capable? Would Fox have inquired as to why she was not Cliath if he did not think her prepared?
Why wasn't she, anyway?
Her hair gathered behind her as she moved to lean upon the door. Her eyes, grey and profound as the sky before a thunderstorm, met with the rafters on the ceiling. She blinked, and blinked again-- an effort to stem the tide of remorse that coursed through her heart and boiled in her veins. In a gesture of abject futility, and without regard to the coarseness of the wood, her back slid down the door until she sat on the floor, gazing distantly into the endless depths of the pendant in her hands. A symbol of Falcon, who granted her favor she did not deserve.
A part of her wondered if Jack Gallows would have given her a leg up. He was correct, after all. They had a positive relationship, they had shared a number of congenial conversations, mostly about the litany, events on Sept. She wanted him to win, so badly, she wanted him to win. Had Shoots said nothing about bias, she would have picked him over anyone. A Philodox, a Fostern, holder of many titles. He was an important, trustworthy Garou. He would have taught her rigorously, and expected a lot. Challenged her, and the other cubs. Perhaps more than the others might have handled. He would have taken her in as a stone and turned her out as a diamond, polished and catching the light in every possible facet. Lucid and unmarred-- as any guardian of Law aught to be.
But he was Shoots' best friend. To draw a wedge between them would have been cruel. A very personal blow to Joe, and she had done enough damage. Whoever she chose would have to be someone Shoots' would feel comfortable challenging, and someone strong enough to teach him, as well as the rest the cubs formerly in his charge. Jack could have done this, but Joe had seemed to value his opinion so highly that she could not trust him to challenge, even when he was ready.
And besides, Gallows' dedication was to his duty; she had not realized until all too late, that being Den parent would not have been yet another burden on him. The look on his face was so fresh in her mind that it felt like it had been burned on the backs of her eyelids. Her nails raked violently over the place where he had touched her, perhaps in penance for playing a part in his disappointment.
Regardless of what she had wanted, Lathias truly was the only option. He was not a poor choice by any means, nor had he been chosen simply by the process of elimination. The virtues of his patience, his wisdom, and his experience made him strong. He expected much from her, from all of the cubs, and knew the Litany well enough to teach her. He was quietly commanding, enough to handle Syrus' obstinacy, and the sternness of Stag's Fury-- whom he would undoubtedly keep around as a matter of balance. Lathias knew potential when he saw it, and choosing him would result in a better, more stable environment for her little "pack." Which, despite personal opinions, she could not help but feel responsibility for.
"In facing our troubles, we know what 'tis to win. We know what it is t'be strong, because we know what 'tis to be weak, We know what tis' to lead in adversity, because we mus' lead our selves each day, against tha' which threatens our sanity. "
Sanity. She questioned how much of that she had, and tried valiantly to deny the water spilling defiantly from her eyes-- causing the paint she wore to streak like blood. Several deep breaths were drawn in an attempt to remain calm, and the flame across the cabin flickered dimly off the lense of her eye.
A single, solitary light in the darkness that surrounded her.
No comments:
Post a Comment