She always knows where to look to find you. You’ve holed up under the canal bridge where you usually go to read, sheltered from the ever-present rain by the sturdy smooth-hewn stone above and the palms surrounding the base. Today, though, you don’t have any books, listening to the pitter-patter of the rain and twisting your dark reddish-brown hair into and out of a braid.
There’s a rustle, and her hand separates the fronds that block you from view. **** looks up, brushing damp mahogany hair out of her face, and seems momentarily relieved to have found you before her face turns uncharacteristically serious again.
“*******,” she says, softly. “I need to tell you something.”
You bite the inside of your lower lip, bracing yourself, and look up at her, not quite meeting her eyes.
**** looks like she’s waiting for you to say something, but then gives an almost-imperceptible shake of her head, and sighs. “Father’s worried about me,” she says, “with war so close. He says it’s high time I entertained suitors, anyway. We’re leaving for Greyfalls.”
You should say something, but what is there to say? You knew was coming—that there was no future for the two of you. It was just a matter of when the axe would fall.
After a moment, **** walks over, to flop down next to you on the riverbank. “Your mother will lose her mind if you ruin that dress,” you say, finally.
**** rolls her eyes. “Really? That’s all you can say about it?”
You shrug, folding your hands in your lap. “I just… What can we do?”
“One thing,” says ****, covering your tanned hands with her fair ones. “Run away with me.”
“What?” You jerk back involuntarily, almost banging your head on the bridge above. “What, no. We can’t.”
“You and me—between the two of us, we’ve always been good at taking care of each other,” **** goes on, breathlessly. “We can make it. Go to some other country where no one knows us, or to Chiaroscuro. Or the Blessed Isle! But I can’t protect you here anymore.”
It feels like your heart is going to beat out of your chest, like you’re standing watching pebbles peel off from beneath your feet at the edge of a cliff. It almost feels like someone will catch you.
But then your mother’s face flashes before her eyes—stern, steely, disappointed—and it feels like you’re already falling. All her hopes she pinned on you, her disappointing firstborn, everything she’s given you to help you fill the shoes of the family legacy. Your brother, who would have much rather been in your place, watching you carefully from the high windows of the temple.
All your ancestors, for generations and generations, serving dutifully, and then you—all it takes is one word to sever that long unbroken line. Just one.
You can’t say it.
She cries and she screams and you feel like you’re going to throw up, caught between the immovable object of your family and the unstoppable force of the person most important to you. You can’t even come up with a good argument; it’s just that, when it comes down to it, you’ve never resented your family for the pressure they’ve put on you. It’s yourself you resent.
In the end, **** storms off, long braid whipping behind her as she elbows her way back through the palms and into the now-pouring rain. You make a half-hearted attempt to follow, near-slipping and scraping your head on the bridge as you go, but what can you say that will change anything? What can you offer?
Her family leaves the next week. You don’t say goodbye.
Notable:
Shrike is from a rainy, tropical country that seems to have a canal system.
She looks like she might be in her late teens or early twenties in this memory.
In this memory, she has no scars and is less weathered, her hair is a dark reddish-brown, and her skin is tanned like she spends a lot of time outside.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
softlyfalling) wrote2019-01-24 12:53 am
Memory 001
There’s a rustle, and her hand separates the fronds that block you from view. **** looks up, brushing damp mahogany hair out of her face, and seems momentarily relieved to have found you before her face turns uncharacteristically serious again.
“*******,” she says, softly. “I need to tell you something.”
You bite the inside of your lower lip, bracing yourself, and look up at her, not quite meeting her eyes.
**** looks like she’s waiting for you to say something, but then gives an almost-imperceptible shake of her head, and sighs. “Father’s worried about me,” she says, “with war so close. He says it’s high time I entertained suitors, anyway. We’re leaving for Greyfalls.”
You should say something, but what is there to say? You knew was coming—that there was no future for the two of you. It was just a matter of when the axe would fall.
After a moment, **** walks over, to flop down next to you on the riverbank. “Your mother will lose her mind if you ruin that dress,” you say, finally.
**** rolls her eyes. “Really? That’s all you can say about it?”
You shrug, folding your hands in your lap. “I just… What can we do?”
“One thing,” says ****, covering your tanned hands with her fair ones. “Run away with me.”
“What?” You jerk back involuntarily, almost banging your head on the bridge above. “What, no. We can’t.”
“You and me—between the two of us, we’ve always been good at taking care of each other,” **** goes on, breathlessly. “We can make it. Go to some other country where no one knows us, or to Chiaroscuro. Or the Blessed Isle! But I can’t protect you here anymore.”
It feels like your heart is going to beat out of your chest, like you’re standing watching pebbles peel off from beneath your feet at the edge of a cliff. It almost feels like someone will catch you.
But then your mother’s face flashes before her eyes—stern, steely, disappointed—and it feels like you’re already falling. All her hopes she pinned on you, her disappointing firstborn, everything she’s given you to help you fill the shoes of the family legacy. Your brother, who would have much rather been in your place, watching you carefully from the high windows of the temple.
All your ancestors, for generations and generations, serving dutifully, and then you—all it takes is one word to sever that long unbroken line. Just one.
You can’t say it.
She cries and she screams and you feel like you’re going to throw up, caught between the immovable object of your family and the unstoppable force of the person most important to you. You can’t even come up with a good argument; it’s just that, when it comes down to it, you’ve never resented your family for the pressure they’ve put on you. It’s yourself you resent.
In the end, **** storms off, long braid whipping behind her as she elbows her way back through the palms and into the now-pouring rain. You make a half-hearted attempt to follow, near-slipping and scraping your head on the bridge as you go, but what can you say that will change anything? What can you offer?
Her family leaves the next week. You don’t say goodbye.
Notable: