![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
birthrightgreenEven after everything I'd been told, after Jaenelle's messages, after meeting the High Lord of Hell...even after all of that, a part of me still couldn't believe. I didn't believe travel like that was possible. And despite always being careful to finish the kill lest I run into one of my victims wanting revenge one day, I still didn't really believe in the demon-dead. Not that they were still themselves, still sentient, and living in the way that matters. Dead, but not gone.
Or mayhap I'd just hoped she'd been spared that. I think I thought it was bad, to make the transition to demon-dead instead of sliding into the Darkness. An in between world where they were trapped. Would you want to be consigned to live in Hell? (No offense, Uncle Saetan) At least, as I had heard the tales, the answer was no. No. I didn't care if only the strongest made the transition. The Darkness seemed preferable, and I wished that for her. That final peace instead of continuing agony.
When he told me what she was, that she was not only demon-dead but Queen of the Harpies, I struck out in denial and fury. She couldn't be. Not her. Not something so filled with hatred and rage. But harpies are witches who die violently by a man's hand, and that is what happened to her. To Titian.
The Hall is an odd amalgamation of the living and the demon-dead and a Guardian. Nowhere else does it exist. The dead are supposed to stay in the Dark Realm. They shouldn't keep following the ties of the living. But Saetan's sons, his friends, they still follow him, dead or not. And she was still there.
All those years, just a passage through a gate away. All those years, crying for her when no one could see. Missing her. Alone, save for Sadi and no matter how wonderful a friend he is, he's no substitute for a mother. For my mother.
I stood on the other side of the door, my hand resting there, feeling the pulse of the room, the power of the Black, of the Ebony, that seems to make the Hall breathe. My hands were shaking and I wasn't sure how to make the knob turn. In the end I had to use Craft. And there she sat, looking like I remembered her, only far more nervous. Fear still in her eyes, though perhaps of rejection not the horrors my father visited on her. A moment. Two. We stared at each other.
And then I was in her arms, and she was holding me and humming softly the songs she sang to me as a child. And for once, I wasn't alone.
Or mayhap I'd just hoped she'd been spared that. I think I thought it was bad, to make the transition to demon-dead instead of sliding into the Darkness. An in between world where they were trapped. Would you want to be consigned to live in Hell? (No offense, Uncle Saetan) At least, as I had heard the tales, the answer was no. No. I didn't care if only the strongest made the transition. The Darkness seemed preferable, and I wished that for her. That final peace instead of continuing agony.
When he told me what she was, that she was not only demon-dead but Queen of the Harpies, I struck out in denial and fury. She couldn't be. Not her. Not something so filled with hatred and rage. But harpies are witches who die violently by a man's hand, and that is what happened to her. To Titian.
The Hall is an odd amalgamation of the living and the demon-dead and a Guardian. Nowhere else does it exist. The dead are supposed to stay in the Dark Realm. They shouldn't keep following the ties of the living. But Saetan's sons, his friends, they still follow him, dead or not. And she was still there.
All those years, just a passage through a gate away. All those years, crying for her when no one could see. Missing her. Alone, save for Sadi and no matter how wonderful a friend he is, he's no substitute for a mother. For my mother.
I stood on the other side of the door, my hand resting there, feeling the pulse of the room, the power of the Black, of the Ebony, that seems to make the Hall breathe. My hands were shaking and I wasn't sure how to make the knob turn. In the end I had to use Craft. And there she sat, looking like I remembered her, only far more nervous. Fear still in her eyes, though perhaps of rejection not the horrors my father visited on her. A moment. Two. We stared at each other.
And then I was in her arms, and she was holding me and humming softly the songs she sang to me as a child. And for once, I wasn't alone.
