"Few could claim to negotiate even a simple deal with a Dread Lord. You, at least, stopped the Shadow Council from coming after you in vengeance. But you still forgot to include the Satyr of this region, and my own.... Well, partial Victories and all."
Nearly two weeks had passed since she'd spearheaded an effort to liberate her mother, and those words haunted her still:
"Well, partial Victories and all."
Xannivard had burnt an indelible impression into her mind. She'd heard the stories of the Demon Lord from her mother and now she'd met the Satyr in the flesh. He had towered over her, his rich red fur, curled horns, well dressed in fine leathers, adorned with precious gems. His leathers alone were likely more valuable than anything in Velerodra's modest wardrobe.
Nearly two weeks had gone by. And even now, in the privacy of her dimly lit and exceptionally well organized office, the events of that night still had a way of creeping into her thoughts. In the center of her desk was Leona's binder. She was looking over the maps and making some notes. At least, she had been. She found her thoughts drifting to her mother and the Satyr.
She traced a line along her throat with her index finger and stopped beneath her chin. Even now she could remember the sensation of Xannivard's obsidian claw as it pressed into her flesh. She curled her fingertip and dragged her own finger harshly back along the line she'd traced, leaving a red line of scratched flesh in its wake.
Eyes lowered, attempting to focus on the work on her desk. Her left hand took hold of a quill, her right rested gently on the desktop.
"Hrm....you know....even young, I might be tempted to say you have more potential than your mother."
Her left index finger and thumb tensenesed up and snapped the quill, sending a cascacade of black ink pouring over her hand, dripping into the desk below. Xannivard's words continued to squirm around in her mind like resilient worms.
"You certainly don't have her.... hesitations."
"I am fortunate to be able to learn from her - past... "
"Ah, a shame she hasn't isn't it?"
She clenched her fist and thrust it onto the well of black ink, shattering it. Shards of glass tore into her hand, but any blood she may have shed was consumed by the ink had been liberated from its vessel, free to crawl across the wooden desk. Her right hand swatted at Leona's binder, shoving it off the desk, not wanting the ink spill to reach it.
Of all the words the Satyr had said - that simple question - 'a shame she hasn't, isn't it?' was the one that still enough, to enrage the blonde. The others - were mere pin pricks - but that rhetorical question - had been piercing.
'A shame she hasn't, isn't it?'
To Vel, the question was a way of insulting her mother. A creature Vel loved, unconditionally, even if it was impossible to be loved in return. She'd accepted this fact. And while dealing with Xannivard was a bitter pill she'd had to swallow, of all that was said - of all the thoughts that she was haunted by - it was that one little implied slight that could stir genuine hatred in the monk and have it cloud her judgement. An expert in repressing her emotions in the moment, she still had emotions. They lingered, and festered, and ate at her.
Over two weeks ago she had bit back her hatred of Xannivard in order to get her mother back. Now the anger bit back at her. In aftershocks and echoes.
She glanced down at her ink stained hand, only now did the sting of the jagged glass register with her. "Fuck." She lifted her left hand and let go of the broken quill, opening her hand. Broken glass jutted into the sides of her ink-covered hand. Irritated, she slammed her hand against the desk and swiped at what was left of the ink well. Little shards of glass now sank even deeper into her flesh. She closed her fist tightly and focused on the sensation. She bit her lip.
It was a sort of catharsis.
The jagged glass digging into her hand was something to focus on.
Xannivard and his comments were not the only things that still plagued her mind. They were part of a constellation of related thoughts and concerns.
Her mother was with Indri, and Vel had not gone to visit. Not once. While Indri claimed Ava was doing better than she expected, she also said Ava still wasn't talking. Part of Vel wondered if Ava would ever talk again, if she'd ever be - herself - again. To see her mother in the state she had been in was crushing. She was among the strongest creatures she knew. And she'd been reduced to - whatever she was now.
Vel couldn't bring herself to look at her like that again. She couldn't stand the thought of speaking and hearing only silence in response. Besides, what good would she be? The monk wasn't like her mother, she wasn't an empath. She didn't know how to offer comfort, she didn't know how to help, she didn't know if it would even matter. Would Ava even be happy to see her?
The last exchange they had was Vel trying to force her through a portal. She couldn't quite handle all the limbs. Ava was as likely to recoil in Vel's presence as she was to find anything pleasant about it.
Vel couldn't relate. She couldn't help. She couldn't even be supportive. She didn't know how to be those things now.
Of course there were still questions regarding what Ava would even have to say to Vel in the event she began to be more herself again. Would she approve of Vel's actions? Vel had secured her mother's freedom, but sacraficed her order's Hold, and the object that once empowered the Shrine. Ava's order - as best Vel could tell - was essentially reduced to near-non-existent on this world.
Vel didn't know if Ava would be angry with her. Vel didn't know if she'd done more harm than good. She didn't know when her mother would even be well enough for her to find out.
It was another reason for her to keep away.
There were a lot of good reasons to steer clear of her mother while she recovered.
And yet, part of her longed to see her.
To tell her she loved her. If nothing else.
She winced as she looked at the ink that had dried on her hand. Between broken glass in her wounds, and ink - it was a recipe for infection. She left her office and made her way to a sink. She watched the water flow over her hand and mix with blood, ink and a few small specs of glass circle down the drain. The bright little bits of glass reminded her of glaciers. The hot water created steam, and she couldn't help but note the black and red swirl resembled molten lava. Glaciers floating on lava. That's how if looked to her.
Her mind had settled again. All of the issues regarding her mother and Xannivard - faded from her mind. For now. A respite. It had been over two weeks and she was still prone to these aftershocks. She kept herself together in public for the most part. She didn't think about it, keeping herself together came naturally. And in keeping herself together, naturally she let everything going on around her - slowly trickle in. More thoughts and emotions tucked away.
Like the glass still stuck in her hand, it tore at her.
Unlike the glass still stuck in her hand, it wouldn't be carefully removed. They would just keep tearing at her. Everything tore at her.
She had the tools to handle the lacerations on her hands. She had the tools to remove the glass and clean the wound and seal it. But the tearing of her mental state - she lacked the tools to handle that. She didn't even know it was happening.
The longer she let these thoughts plague her. The more divided she'd become. And most of her, wouldn't even notice. And most others wouldn't notice either.
She'd gotten her mother back, even though, she was damaged and beyond Vel's ability to relate to. She'd managed to not be tempted by Xannivard's offers and managed to make a deal with a Dread Lord, but she still let the Satyr's words haunt her and she was not sure her mother wouldn't resent her for the deal Velerodra had made for her mother's freedom.
"Well, partial Victories and all."
She scrubbed at her hand as those words threatened to creep back into her skull and bounce around once more. Metal forcepts helped to pluck the glass from her hand. Her hand twitched as she cleaned the wounds. When she was finished, she used the mists as a disinfectant. She bandaged her hand.
At least her hand would be fine.
Though writing with it was going to be a frustrating experience. She headed back to her office with a wet rag and cleaned up the mess of ink. She collected all the shattered glass and disposed of it. She placed Leona's binder neatly back on the center of the desk. She sat down and opened a drawer and withdrew a new inkwell and quill and set them down.
Back to work.
@avaraelia, @batandmole
