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Mar. 15th, 2006 03:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
birthrightgreenThe 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.
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.
