birthrightgreen: (Another Day with Daemon)
OOC: This comes out of AU RP, not canon, and definitely not TM-ish RP. But it 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: (Not that girl)
The tree did not make a satisfactory target. The knives stuck in it well enough, but it didn't bleed. Graysfang was astute enough to stay behind where she was hurling things and not present himself as a target, but he stayed close enough to let her know he was there if she should need him. Not that he knew what he could do, and his puppyish distress was palpable in the air.

She ignored it steadily, just as she was ignoring the ache in her arm. When it hurt too much to ignore, she just switched arms.

And it wasn't helping. She needed something...more. She needed a target. Something to kill, and the sheer unfairness of the fact that there was no one left almost made her sob with her own helplessness to vent any of the rage that had been building up since the night she'd taken the blade to her own skin to make the pain stop, if only for a minute.

Nowhere to put it anymore, and no resolution for her. Kartane's blood spilled, and those who'd raped her purged, and there was no one left to extract vengeance from, but the rage and the pain were still there.

Rainier had been good to his word. He hadn't told the family about that night. He hadn't alerted anyone, and the scars were almost gone. Long sleeves hid them easily. He'd worked to heal other things since, but...centuries of rage and self-hatred didn't just go away. Somewhere inside she recognized that.

She couldn't do that here, anyway. Graysfang wouldn't understand he couldn't tattle. He'd run for help, thinking it was an accident. And they were all here. She couldn't...they'd see the blood. And she'd told him she wouldn't do it again, no matter that the temptation was almost overwhelming. The physical pain had blocked out the rest for a while.

She could spar, but she pitied anyone who picked up the sticks...though another part of her whispered that she'd let them win, just so something else would hurt. She pushed that thought away viciously. She wasn't weak. She wasn't...she was strong. She wouldn't give into it again. Not the weakness of hurting herself, not the weakness of tears, not the weakness of needing anyone.

The tree, however, wasn't working either. She wondered, almost idly, if Daemon was right that she wouldn't just kill for the pleasure of killing. Where did you put the rage, when there was no one left to hate?

She wanted her mother.

She pulled her knives out of the tree with a snarl, then threw them at another tree. Again and again and maybe the exhaustion would set in and then she could stop.


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March 2009

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