lick by lick, out went the fire, leaving nothing but smoke in the back of her throat.
giggle, talking; damask, listening, sinking deeper and deeper into abject dismay — because, wait a second, these were kids? raised in isolation, given no education, destined to die? had she just flat-out missed that part? (ah, yeah, actually. you did. that was kinda the point. didn't really consider that there might be something important squirreled away in all that scary death talk, did you? so!, now that we know ...) this was a mistake. every seething word in her head; those three naked teeth; seizing on a couple of strangers, forcing them into outright paralysis — all one big mistake, and right then, her grandmother just had to say it again, a punch with a letter on all four knuckles. this time, damask couldn't not flinch.
she swiveled her head a little, just enough to watch the survivors in her periphery. sora spoke first, all the fight gone out of her, sounding more tired than anything else; next, morganite, sincerely repentant. damask spared a peek at eythan, caught in a paradox of lingering rapport and a new wave of guilt. he had every right to be upset with them, but, well, that worked both ways. (lot more complicated than you wanted it to be, huh? and, ahh ... there goes charles. buckle up! it's about to get worse.) "the blood of so many innocent lives lies on your doorstep." (cool it, cool it, keep it cool.) "too many have died." (you've heard it already. handle yourself.) "watch your family get eaten," he was saying, (let's try not to shake, now,) and "used like puppets," (come on!, it's not that bad!, it's only mass murder!,) and she had her magic at the ready, her wings, her legs, to do what exactly she wasn't sure but she could not hear another word —
and yet, her father beat her to it. a flick of his pinions, and charles fell silent. damask's gaze flashed over to auré. (oh, shit.) (that's not good.) (fellas and folks, we have a new low.) here were a few words he brought to mind, in this moment: helpless, despondent, and downright exhausted, all of him sagging with sadness and defeat. he'd done the right thing, casting the spell — it showed some authority on his part, and charles had truly left him no other choice. but everything else, how he looked, how he sounded ... (there's a stutter. pause, pause, backtrack. not one, not two, but three pleases, on top of several priors. more trailing, more stops and starts, a question he should've phrased as a statement or nixed altogether.) in conclusion: he wanted out. this meeting had him feeling trapped. damask stopped her talons just short of tapping, once again aware of the pain in her chest.
now she wasn't sinking so much as she was spiraling.
and was no one else seeing this? giggle offered her son nothing more than a passing look; eythan got one, too, followed by the survivors, who were also given another advisory note. and that was it. even kerberos — sweet, sweet kerberos, all nudges and kisses — was doting on everyone who could've benefited except for auré. and, yeah, that kind of support wouldn't have been exactly ... appropriate in his case, but — there was, at least, one very obvious thing that he needed, and was no one else willing to say it in no uncertain terms?
(you gonna keep on sitting there, or you gonna get up and go?)
she glanced around, glanced around, ever-so-discreetly. sure enough, no one was watching. (and why would they be? even ashtoreth has said more than you have.) all right, back to auré. a beat of hesitation, voices humming around her, and ... the accipiter finally, fleetingly let go of herself — eyes yawning wide, brows pushed together, lips parted in a just-ajar frown. this was an expression that said, loud and clear: hey. you don't look good. can i do something? would that be okay? yes? okay. with this message sent and received, she wiped her face clean and molded it into stony resolve.
damask stepped quietly up to her feet. twisting over her shoulder, she regarded each of them in turn, the lost souls, the big tourists: sora, catatonic; morganite, shivering at the edge of the crowd, hiding away what must've been tears; and charles, fallen to the floor in a rasping, shuddering heap. he wanted to leave, he said — no, needed to. (see? kids. a bunch of traumatized, disillusioned children. and what can you do to make it better? nothing. not — a — thing.) an invisible string tugged at one side of her mouth; she snipped it away as quick as she could. "now's a good time for you to bow out, if there's nothing else," she told them, quietly and levelly. not too much intensity, which could've been mistaken for aggression, and not too much sympathy, which could've been mistaken for pity. "look after your brother. look after each other. all right?"
here, she dedicated a moment to nemo and pumpkin, huddled together apart from the others. for them, a shake of her head, followed by a firm nod: not you. you're good to stay. and man, how awkward those two must've felt, how forgotten — pumpkin especially, with his siblings behind him and a world of unknowns ahead. some welcome they'd been given. absolutely embarrassing. the newcomers were owed some attention, soon — along with an apology. but first, this conflict needed resolution.
a black-and-white wing swept out to indicate the bonebound at large. (but not anyone in particular. eyes on the three. don't look at him. do not look at him.) exhale. right ...
"... and let us do the same."