Dancing

Nov. 29th, 2006 05:55 pm
birthrightgreen: (dancing with Rainier)
It was a delicate dance that we danced, swirling around each other in perfectly complimenting colors. A Warlord Prince of any Jewel rank is dangerous. More than dangerous, deadly. A witch who wears the Gray is equally deadly. There is imbalance in it, by nature. Who leads? Who follows? His caste is higher. My Jewel is darker than his Opal. I am female. He is male. He is an aristo. I was a whore.

We moved cautiously around each other, fingers brushing first, then stepping closer. A brush of lips, a breath caught, and then I retreated. He followed.

In the end the patterns we trod circled around each other too tightly to be distinguished. He Served with stubborn determination, bending me gently until I accepted what he offered with a disgruntled snort. He’d get so angry if I wouldn’t let him that it really wasn’t worth the bother, as I told my family. Opal Jeweled or not, I grumbled, he was still a Warlord Prince and after several bruises from losing bouts with fighting sticks, I was getting tired of fighting even if my masseuse appreciated the business.

Then he offered to take over that position, warm, strong hands sliding over supple skin, and we started a new dance altogether.

Tunnel

Nov. 2nd, 2006 05:45 pm
birthrightgreen: (Deadly)
The grass crunched under her feet, brittle with frost not yet thick enough to be visible unless you looked closely to see the sheen on each blade. Still it wasn't the silence she was craving, but instead an audible indicator of her presence. The silent curse to the Darkness that slid through her mind coincided with the heat in her face with a rush of annoyance at both the sound of her footsteps and the exhalation of breath she hadn't caught soon enough.

It wasn't like her to be so sloppy.

The sounds the man in the tunnel made seemed to leave him oblivious to those she'd allowed to escape, however. He was too lost in his panting thrusts and the almost inaudible whimpers of the girl under him. The child saw her standing there, but she gave no sign of it, her face scrunched in pain and her eyes dull over the man's large shoulder.

Surreal's right hand twitched and the familiar comfort of the stiletto settled there. It was fast. It was brutal. His screams echoed off the bricks, then died, choked off abruptly. The girl fell silent as well, not making even a sound when Surreal hauled the man off of her. Her eyes reflected nothing back but a shattered web, and Surreal knew she'd been too late.
birthrightgreen: (Everything has a price)
It used to be clients. When I worked, I usually worked all but 3 nights of the month and slept during the day. Nothing kept me from that sleep. Not fury at my clients, not guilt over my marks. I slept like a child.

But now it is the child that keeps me awake. I fear for her. I fear for her future, for what she will be. With my blood and his mingled, with all the things we bring. The coldness, sometimes. The anger. The bitterness. It laces through both of us and I fear what we could do to her.

I don't talk about it, because someone has to believe in us. Someone has to know that we can do this. That we have the ability to change, to be better for her. But he's so...He posts things. He talks about his inability to change and I think, No. This is not the man I know. The man I know wants to change. He wanted me. He wanted this child. And when he looks at me, and when he feels her move...it doesn't make sense, the words he says at other times. The things I know he does with others. The needs I can't fulfill for him. The places he goes.

I wonder if I am the same. If the face he sees, the face they all see, if it's something else. Another me and underneath is her. The girl from the streets who had no qualms about killing. The girl consumed by hatred and bitterness, planning her father's murder, her mother's revenge. That's not what I want to pass on to my daughter. That isn't the legacy I want to bring. I want her to grow up loved and happy and safe and at peace.

And I lie awake wondering how she can have that with parents like us.
birthrightgreen: (Baby)
I felt the baby move today! She moved. I'm just...I never thought that such a little thing could change so much. Just knowing that she was there, before, it made all the difference and I thought that...nothing could top this. Nothing could be better than this moment right now, right here. The realization that I was going to have a child.

But today, now. This? She moved inside me. I felt her, and I know now she's really there. And she knows I'm here.

Nothing compares. I don't even have words.
birthrightgreen: (With Baby)
Surreal slipped outside with a smile, lifting her face to the sun, just closing her eyes and breathing it in. It wasn't that she hadn't been outside in the preceding month, but the nausea and exhaustion had been bad enough that it hadn't been often or for extended periods of time. That had all passed in the past couple of weeks, and all she could think about was being out of those rooms, energy filling her in ways she'd never experienced.

The trees were starting to change, just around the edges, and there was a crisp smell of autumn in the air. The first harvest festivals had passed already, and Samhain loomed within the next month. Fergus had taught her the names and some of the ritual meanings and she found herself delighting in the learning of the things so important to these distant bloodkin of her mother's people.

She wrapped a shawl around her closely before anyone wandering by could fuss at her for being out in the chilly air. A quiet stroll through the gardens, maybe out to the woods, would be good for both her and baby. She'd had to have her dresses let out, smiling as she felt her shape start to change to accommodate the child. She'd always been tiny, so the difference was more readily apparent, but as she touched her stomach she felt an almost irrational urge to bounce at the physical surety of the baby's growth.

Then something did bounce, or at least flutter. Her hands settled flat over her stomach and she gasped, then grinned as she felt it again. A definite movement she could feel both inside and against her hand. She didn't know if anyone else would be able to feel it, but Sam would and this was something she wanted to share with him.

Of course, not knowing where he was proved to be a bit of a problem.

"Samael!" She was bouncing now, beaming with delight as she ran down to the stables to see if that's where he'd wandered off to.
birthrightgreen: (Baby!)
Baby conceived -- some time first/second week of June. Let's say the 7th or 8th?
Second trimester started Sept 13th or so
We are now on week 16.
Third trimester will start second week of December -- baby viable.
Expected due date -- March 10th ('cause it's a weekend and possible I can play), but babies can take up to 42 weeks easily, so, we'll say the sweet thing can come any time in March that I have time to play given we'll be in the second month of actual Session with House deadlines approaching. *wry*
birthrightgreen: (Dream of a Place Called Home)
I am generally a truthful sort. Oh, there are things I suppose I lie about, or used to, at least. My age. That I liked it when they -- fill in the blank with whatever you think a client might have done. That I didn't love the kill. That I didn't take pleasure in killing, though Sadi called me on that. I enjoyed the kill, yes, but I didn't kill for my own pleasure.

That I didn't find release in it. Have I said that out loud before? That sometimes the only peace I could find came in bloodshed. I can look back and tell the truth about that now, when I can find peace in so many other things.

But generally, I tell the truth. I've been called abrasive for it, for not sugar coating it. Unless you are a client or a mark, what you see is what you get, and as I don't have clients or marks anymore...well. This is me. Who I am at the core and I don't think there are lies so pervasive to warrant discussion on their own.

[Locked from Samael and my family]

Well, perhaps there is one.

Does it really count as a confession of a lie if I'm too cowardly to put it where anyone I lie for would see? But it's a lie for a good reason, and I wouldn't hurt them for the world, so it is best if it stays here, between us and away from them.

"I love him like a sister, or a cousin."

There is nothing...familial about my affections for him. There hasn't been since I was a child. I have always loved him since the first day he swept in and saved us, loved him as a woman, not a sister. I would have done nearly anything for him, if he'd just asked.

But it's not a truth I will ever tell him. Not a truth I will tell Jaenelle or Lucivar or Saetan. Because no matter how much I love him, he does not feel the same for me. And he is happy. He loves and is loved by someone so very much more worthy of him than I could ever be. And I love her so, as well. Why would I ever disrupt their happiness with my truth? To love is not a betrayal, and I loved him before she was born. I can't stop it now, but I'll keep lying about it because I don't want there to ever be a question of my loyalty to her. She is my Queen. She is Witch. She is my Sister. And my loyalty and love for her, for our family, goes deeper than any passion for Sadi.

Besides, I have Samael, now. And I love him so very much. A woman's passion, conceived as a woman, and chosen deliberately, through trouble and trials, instead of a child's adoration deepened over time into something more heated and desperate.

It's different that what I feel for Sadi, but no less deep. I finally have a chance to have that love with someone. To have a family and a home of my own. To be the center of someone's world. This is how it should be. How it is. And I am happy.

Why would I let a truth out that could disrupt all of that?

Revenge

Sep. 8th, 2006 10:26 am
birthrightgreen: (Assassin)
What of it? I lived my life for it for nearly four centuries. Revenge agaisnt my father. Revenge against the man who cut my mother's throat. Revenge against the men who raped me as a child. Revenge against all men who did such things to women. Revenge against women who committed atrocities on the few men I loved. Revenge against the Realm that would have destroyed my home. Revenge against the family who didn't recognize the treasure in their midst.

It's defined me, and I realize that. Shaped me into the woman I've become and woven itself deep into the patterns of my self. I don't know how I'd tear it out, and I don't know that I want to. It gives purpose and passion and while there may be few, or even no, slights that bear the need for vengeance now, it stands waiting and ready for anyone who'd think to harm my child, or my family.

What else is there to say?
birthrightgreen: (Thoughtful)
You Are Strength

You represent both fiery energy and steadfast will.
You are innocent and naive - yet unafraid and undaunted.
Perhaps you don't have the most powerful physical strength...
But your mental powers make up for any amount of muscle.

Your fortune:

Lately, you have been a pillar of ethics and moral strength.
And while things may be difficult, your faith in yourself will come through.
You may need to conquer the animalistic nature of yourself or others, with gentle force.
Although this may seem like the darkest hour for you, victory is near.
birthrightgreen: (Sam and Surreal ethereal)
The morning sickness was starting to ease a bit, or at least she seemed to be getting over it faster. Things had been difficult for the past few weeks, which meant she'd stayed mostly in her rooms except when Samael tempted her to the cabin. It seemed to be stabilizing some, and for that she was grateful. This whole pregnancy business was hard enough without the additional emotional upheavals.

She still needed a nap most afternoons, which worked well enough since Samael had things to attend to, but by the early evenings she was doing better. This particular evening she had ventured downstairs to the library in search of Samael and some diversion. Midir had been there and kept her entertained with stories of the Sidhe, helping her find books on his people and then having a grand time telling her every single point where the stories got it wrong.

She'd exhausted what she knew of the Dea al Mon in their first conversation, but she reciprocated with stories of the Blood and if Daemon had told him some of them already, he was polite enough not to mention it. He took his leave after an hour or so to go find Keelia and Michael for dinner, and she curled up on one of the couches with the book he'd recommended as not being too inaccurate, deciding to wait there until Samael got home.
birthrightgreen: (Miss Independent)
No.

I suppose I should clarify and expand that, but it really comes down to just that. I'm not saying I don't have friends. I'm not saying I don't want or appreciate them, but it doesn't come easy. A lot of people are put off by my occupations, or former occupations. Not that I care about their opinions, but it does make that first hurdle of friendly acquaintances harder to get over. I'm naturally suspicious. I learned early that giving trust easily is an unwise move, and when even your best friend betrays that trust, it makes it harder to trust again.

I always feel like I'm living on the edge, and I've learned that the only person I can completely depend on is me. I may learn to trust others, to a certain extent, but that knowledge is always there and it makes the friendship making process more difficult.

I'm prickly, or so I've been told. I'm opinionated. I'm quick to solve a dispute in violence, and have few qualms about killing. None of this lends itself well to making friends. It makes people wary, and rightfully so. Of course, I'm wary of them as well. So we circle each other warily and keep from reaching out for a long time.

I have friends. There are people willing to see past that, willing to be patient until I trust them. But not many, and it is never easy. It works for me.
birthrightgreen: (headache)
It had been a pretty room before she started throwing things around it. If she could, she would have hurled Craft to shred the rest of it to bits, but even in her hurt and fury she had a care for her child. A human doctor might tell her that such upset wasn't good for the baby either, but there were none of those around.

Vases had splintered and mirrors were shattered in every direction. She was sobbing her fury now, at a loss for what else to do. A knife in his back, or across his throat, seemed like a plausible solution, and she wondered how much it would hurt him. If he would bleed out and have to be resurrected.

He'd promised. He'd promised. And she'd given up everything to come here. Her home. Her family. Daemon. That she could go back was no matter. She'd moved to his world, brought her Jewels and her knives and her wolf and taken up residence. She'd allowed him to seed her, when she'd fought conception every other time it seemed imminent. Trusted him enough to be here, vulnerable without her powers for nine months.

And now he was inconsolable because the bloody Watcher hadn't cried on his shoulder instead of some blue girl's. It was a slap, painful enough that it hurt to breathe. She'd been there for him, all along. Done everything she'd known to do. Been willing to be his whore, accepting Luella's position as primary in his life. And he'd made her believe...

A home. A family. Him, as her own. The two of them trying something different.

But nothing changes and it was stupid of her to think that someone like her could have those things. She smashed a piece of a mirror into smaller bits, heedless of the cuts on her hands. Without her power, without a target, she didn't know what else to do. Couldn't go home and face them. Not again. Not after Falonar. But she wouldn't be tossed aside again either. She wrapped her arms around her midsection, protective of the child growing inside, not caring about the blood she stained her skirts with. She never should have come here.
birthrightgreen: (not always rainbows)
That rather depends on your definition of strong, doesn't it? There's an argument to be made that what happened to me as a child made me strong. I survived it, at least and there's only one other I know who has managed to come through a rape on her Virgin Night still able to use her Craft. Most of them are at least broken, if not driven completely mad. So, one could say that was a strength. At 12, I managed to hold on to myself through the first rape, and the second, and the third. I survived and that has to mean something, yes?

Whether I survived intact...my inner web, yes. My use of Craft, yes. I held onto those, and yet part of me thinks that they managed to kill something else, and I was too young then to realize what I'd lost. Even now, I can't put a name to it.

I don't know. My instinct is to say, "Yes. If you come through the trials and you're still alive, then you will grow from what you learn and you will be stronger in the end." It makes such logical sense and it allows me to derive some pride in surviving what my life was. It allows me to say, "Look. I survived that. I can survive anything this damn world has to throw at me, because each trial just makes me stronger." There is peace in saying that. Pride. Defiance to throw back into the face of the world. I scream at the wind to do its worst, because it can't break me.

But the defiance, the fear, the darkness it bred...is it strength? Or is it another form of death. A death of self. Of gentleness. Of goodness. If I had come through it as Jaenelle did, wise and patient and kind and loving, perhaps I could claim it. But I didn't.

Oh, I'm strong. And you won't break me. And you won't bend me to your will. However, perhaps that's because the only strength I have left is my defiance, my determination to not be dragged down. Perhaps the rest of what I could have been is already dead.
birthrightgreen: (Everything has a price)
Often, the first thing people notice about me is my ears. They mark me as different, not Hayllian, as my skin and hair might lead you to believe at first. Delicate and pointed, they are unique to my mother's people, the Dea al Mon. There are some who call them exotic, and they played a part in the games I learned to play young.

My eyes as well. Almost Hayllian gold, almost, but with a shot of emerald unlike anything you'd see on a pureblood Hayllian. Those are hers, too.

My skin, my hair are marks of him and something I've hated all my life.

But these are just the physical, and I doubt that's what you're asking.

I've a horn handled dagger, sharp and true, that my mother taught me to use when I was a child. It didn't save her from Greer's knife, but it's kept me safe more times than once.

I've a Jewel, set in silver in the crest of our family--her family. Two stags curve around the Jewel, their antlers interlock at the top to hide the ring where the chain is fastened. She told me that if I ever met her people, they would know me by that Jewel. It was hers, once, before Kartane broke her and she could no longer wear it. When I had mine set, I chose gold as she suggested, but the design is the same.

And then there is the hatred, the vengeance, both without a focus anymore. I thought when we killed him, when it was over, that it would go away. But that which flew her to her position as Queen of the Harpies, the vengeance and hatred that burned in her for all those centuries...it too was my inheritance, and seems to be something I can't fully let go of.

Her eyes, her ears, her Jewel, her dagger. These are all things I want to pass on to my daughter. The other I need to find a way to rid myself of, so I don't pass it on any further.

If...

Jul. 5th, 2006 10:49 am
birthrightgreen: (Baby)
If Kartane SaDiablo had his way, I never would have been born. It was his habit, you see, to break a young witch, no more than 12 or 13 at the most, and keep her until he seeded her. Then he either terrified her into spontaneously aborting or had one of the Healers under his mother's thumb take care of it. Once the child was gone, he tossed the girl into the street to return to her family in shame or to find work at a Red Moon House.

For centuries that was his game and none of them escaped. None until Titian.

She didn't go home, and I've never known why. Perhaps the Priestesses at the Gates back to Kaeleer could not be trusted? Perhaps she thought her family would not accept me, though they have done so with open arms since my coming here. Perhaps she was ashamed, though she never showed such shame to me. She didn't go to a Red Moon house where they would have been reluctant to take in a pregnant whore, and he could have found her.

No, she ran and she hid in the streets. She whored herself for a pittance to keep us both fed. She taught me what she could to keep me safe. And she screamed her last breath to keep me safe, pulsing energy in the walls to warn me from our home when Kartane sent an assassin to finish that which he hadn't been able to. There was no reason to kill her except that she ran, except that she bore me, and she knew that was the risk when she defied him.

I never understood any of it. Not why she didn't go home where she would be safe. Not why he wanted me dead so badly. And most of all why she didn't just abort me and make her way to safety and away from him, able to slide into the shadows and rebuild a life with as few reminders as possible.

None of the men who took me ever seeded me. I was lucky, I suppose, though I always wondered if it was damage from the first time. But I swore if they did, that I would get rid of their seed. That I would not carry the child of my rapist to term.

Only now do I begin to understand. I feel the tiny flutter of life inside me, the consciousness awakening though there is nothing physical yet that should give such a feeling, or so they tell me. This child was conceived in love. Wanted by both father and mother. Her life will be safe in a way I never knew. But what I have come to realize is that none of that matters where she and I are concerned. Not who her father is. Not how she will be raised. Not where she will live. Only that she is there inside of me. She is part of me and I cannot dream of harming her. Mine to protect. Mine to love. That I will share those moments and duties with a man I love means that I am blessed, and that she will know the wholeness I would wish for her, but it does not effect my love for her one way or the other.

To feel such a thing is to know, finally, why Titian did as she did. I would do anything for this child. The streets again. Separation from my family. Hiding forever. Whatever it took to raise her whole and healthy and safe in this world. I finally understand my mother, and I hope that wherever she is, she knows that.

Happy News

Jun. 27th, 2006 10:11 am
birthrightgreen: (With Baby)
And after that unpleasant rant, I think it's time to give you all some happy news. I didn't want to say anything until we were sure, but we're sure now. Morghann has confirmed it and...well, even I can tell now.

Samael and I are going to have a baby!

I'm still nervous and I wish more than ever my mother were here, but this is the best thing I think has ever happened to me and I hope you all will wish us well as we start this new chapter in our lives.
birthrightgreen: (Heaven knows what a girl can do)
I think that by now everyone who knows me knows the answer to this one, sugar. The breaking of a witch. The abuse of a child--physical, emotional or sexual. Rape in any form. The abuse of a witch, forcing her to kneel and stripping away her power.

It was done to my mother. They tried to do it to me, more than once. The feel of fists and the terror of being violated, the helplessness of that feeling stays with me, even now after all this time. It sticks in my throat, and when I see or hear about it happening to someone else, I can't stop the spike of fury.

No one has the right to take such a thing from anyone else. No one has the right to do such a thing. And those that do will not hear a thing when I find them. All they will feel is the thrust of my blade the moment before their hearts stop.
birthrightgreen: (Another Day with Daemon)
OOC: This comes out of AU RP, not canon, and definitely not TM-ish RP. But it just...fit the prompt, so I let her go with it.

When I awoke the next morning, I ached all over. That warm, pleasant ache that radiates from your core into each muscle. My shoulder blades were raw, but then the kitchen floor isn’t carpeted. My wrist throbbed from the small puncture wound, and my neck had more than one bruise on it.

It was … I just lay there, taking account of each hurt, pulling it to my heart and cherishing it. He’d known what I could take, what I craved, things Falonar had never understood about me. Things born in shame but which made me now what I was, a perfect counterpart for that part of him. I rolled over, the soft sheets sliding over skin as gently as his hands had, after.

Open. Vulnerable, in a way I’d never let myself be. The emotional aftershocks of it were still making my head spin, even as remembering it brought a wave of heat to my cheeks. There should have been shame. Regret, as my fingers danced over the empty space in my bed where he’d never laid and never would. But I couldn’t muster it up. It would come, I was sure. Later and wash over me and hurt more for the knowledge of how for the first time in my life, I’d felt like I’d come home. Like I belonged.

My fingers danced over the mark on my wrist again. I did belong. He’d marked me. His. Physical proof of what had always been. Then. Now. Forever.

I could wait.
birthrightgreen: (Hell's Fire!)
May the Darkness be merciful, my lover has a tail. And whiskers.

Somebody fix it.

Comfort

Jun. 1st, 2006 02:30 pm
birthrightgreen: (Deadly)
It's a welcome feeling when my fingers curl around the handle. Familiar. Comforting. I remember the first one she handed me, the first time I wielded it, trying to imitate her movements, jerky, off balance. I was frustrated. She was patient. It didn't help in the end, not really. She was still gone, though I carried it with me, the bone handle cutting deep into my palm where I clutched it too tightly. It was crude, that first weapon, and I couldn't call it to my hands when he bound them and held me down.

I was too stunned at the next. Too frightened of the one after. In too much pain with the fourth. But then came one, and my body was adjusting to what they did to it. It still hurt, but there was the ability to think under the pain, to hate. To rage. To call it in and wrap my hand around it and plunge it deep into his back until he bled as much as I did the first time.

There were others, and people learned. They talked. The plotted, but no one cared enough to stop me. Then he came and there was training and there were teachers. It became a dance in and of itself and separated from the basic needs of survival it became a release. Grace and beauty under the brutality of the movement. Anyone can watch a fencing match and see the beauty, but the grace in the movement of a smaller blade is often lost. Far too often it is used for only one thing, though there are some who can see the beauty in the patterns it can trace on skin as it slices it away. Precision in the cuts. A twist of the wrist. The sure knowledge that the thin blade has done damage no surgeon can repair, slicing a triangle in the heart that can't be stitched closed.

A beautiful instrument ornamented, decorative and deceptively harmless looking, but it delivers death, swift and sure. It's always with me, and there will be none who take what I'm not willing to give ever again.
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