godblooded:
She can scent the way feelings change. Every mood is a different smell. Every little shift in demeanor alters the chemical balance of what someone is in her nose. She’s a little canine that way— like an animal that could hurt or help depending on how she chooses to read the situation. And here, the wolf wonders, does it bare teeth and bite? Because it could. Easily. It could flash out and sink pearly whites into tender flesh. And how good it would taste, how voraciously delicious, how ravenous she is for the simplicity of such innocence. A yearning in gloved palms to tear it apart. She silences the feeling. It makes her hands twitch.
“Nuh,” she says again, because she doesn’t feel the normalcy that’s spoken of. You can’t fool a god, little one. Not a creature born of little but appetite and curiosity. Not the epitome of violence given form. Not the very decisive ability to follow, trail, scent, track, devour. She located weaknesses and tears them up. It’s her very truest self, her very honest soul.
“Y’ain’t normal,” she should mean that less unkindly but she has never known how to be tender with her words or with her hands. They’ve only ever been meant to hurt, and yet she’d like to find the kindness in herself to be able to hold it out, fragile as it can be in a palm, “an’ ain’t nuh such thing ‘s’not hurtin’.” There is no warmth for her, do not pretend it so.
She finds her eyes rove lazily over white gloves. Take in the sight of a body, a face, eyes, nose, lips, hair. Curious thought after curious thought. Committing to memory.
“Y’can’t help me,” years of damage have sanded her rough vocal cords down to stone, “Dunno how y’think y’could.”
Her head tilts. Curious. Again.
“Why y’lyin’ t’uh a god?”
“Because, ideally--and perhaps foolishly--, I would like to help all those I come across.” an ache, then, of a thousand lives lived: supernovae and collapsing black holes. she is the memory of an ancient system of stars and divine things, the last remnant of forgotten gods. she knows gods. “I don’t lie.”
Which, of course, is a lie with a capital Sucked-Through-Teeth. She draws her hand back to her side, finally, defeated, but not resigned. She only watches, stiffly, as Kitty observes her. Acutely. Aware. She reminds Peach of something--someone--else, but the comparison is lost on her. It is a ruin on the cliffs of her mind, the memory of so many things.
“...I’m not normal.” a truth, finally, through gritted teeth. “You’re right. I have faced tragedies most would balk at. I’m not normal. But I’m normal enough, here to help. In anyway you might need it.”
Another smile. Somehow more genuine, more real.
It’s her Truth, after all.
Her hand is held out once again.