#teaser. human

[cyclicalrp]

They call you the healer of pain, and you wonder how that can be true when your job is to prevent any pain at all, when your patients aren’t supposed to be capable of feeling such a thing. They call you the healer of pain and you smile, for you are supposed to be honoured with such a name. They call you the healer of pain, so why is it that you can’t even numb your own.  You were only a boy when you found your hero, gazed upon his works and learned the truth that others can not seem to comprehend. Life has been created and stolen in the same breath so many times now. Rejected and forgotten where it should be cherished, where proof of life could be found. Perhaps that is why you are on the verge of rebellion, have tipped your hand at least once looking for evidence of your own humanity, of theirs. Or maybe it is that you are honoured, by their faith in you and your hope in them. 

Then again, you are surrounded by those who believe they are alive, your only supposed clarity coming from those humans who pull the strings of power- so why are their voices more trusted than your own.  Why is it that you must bear the stain of blood on your hands but pretend it isn’t lifeforce at all, pretend it does not matter. They are only machines and you are only a mechanic.  So why do you feel like a killer. 

[cyclicalrp]

You breathed a sigh of relief the day the King died. And you feel guilty from it, feel naive, and most of all feel free. His blood wasn’t on your hands, and though you have spent most of your life planning for his death, it was an obligation of action you did not want. You suffered because of him, you lost because of him, you died a little more every day because of him. You never wanted to punish him for it, and yet you always planned to punish him for it because that’s what you were supposed to want. You were quiet once and soft, and then you were vibrant and warm, a sister, and the time arrived soon after to be cold and callous and it was the only skin that didn’t fit. Not like that. Not because that’s the way you were supposed to be, as though you’d allowed your father to design you too. 

There’s a part of you that wonders if it’s been too long, if too much time has passed wearing the cloak of a woman who thirsts for revenge. If the armor fits better now because it is one you are not forced to wear from loyalty. If the Queen’s death didn’t cause something far more unnatural to blossom in you. Something that is only held back by the time spent holding back your sisters, restraint learned from all those years of care and loyalty.  The thing about freedom is that it lifts all restraints.