There's something that's a hiccup of a laugh, and oh bloody fuck she shouldn't laugh, that hurts, but it's sounds right. That sounds so right. Her name, against those words, that tone. Swearing at her, in a way that sounds both like an order and pleading. All at once. His voice in that tone. How long has it been. How many years. He's close now. Too close. Not close enough. And she has to wonder if she is going to fall off a counter, doing a healing spell of all things. Breaking, not mending. Breaking, not mending. Healways said. He was always right.
"Price of the party." He knows that. He knows what they signed up for. Blood and promises. (Be safe.) The price is everything that it has to be, and it has to be themselves, well, they signed up for that party, too.
She starts. Again. A second time, or is it a third. She has to get through the third recitation without breaking it again. He's such a bad influence. He always was. Kept her in one piece. Happier than she ever was before. After leaving them. Mend. Mend. Mend. The words are Latin, but the thoughts are brutal. Images, not words. Like a jackhammer, and she knows it's force not finesse that is going through her numbing fingers, when her hand -- body? -- shakes so hard her wand actually slips from her hand and her hand snaps up, snapping, clawing fingers hard around her shoulder instead of floundering from her wand.
Focus, focus, focus. Just get through the words. Two more lines. One. A few words. It feels like something is exploding inside her head.
Snaps, against the last word, as she feels it snap free. The words finishing. The pain giving. The explosion blooming in her head. When the words become not Latin, but English, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, bloody fuck,", and she's trying to curl toward her knees, and there's no counter balance in the thought of it, or the fact she'd been precariously balanced on a counter as it was.
no subject
There's something that's a hiccup of a laugh, and oh bloody fuck she shouldn't laugh, that hurts, but it's sounds right. That sounds so right. Her name, against those words, that tone. Swearing at her, in a way that sounds both like an order and pleading. All at once. His voice in that tone. How long has it been. How many years. He's close now. Too close. Not close enough. And she has to wonder if she is going to fall off a counter, doing a healing spell of all things. Breaking, not mending. Breaking, not mending. He always said. He was always right.
"Price of the party." He knows that. He knows what they signed up for. Blood and promises. (Be safe.)
The price is everything that it has to be, and it has to be themselves, well, they signed up for that party, too.
She starts. Again. A second time, or is it a third. She has to get through the third recitation without breaking it again. He's such a bad influence. He always was. Kept her in one piece. Happier than she ever was before. After leaving them. Mend. Mend. Mend. The words are Latin, but the thoughts are brutal. Images, not words. Like a jackhammer, and she knows it's force not finesse that is going through her numbing fingers, when her hand -- body? -- shakes so hard her wand actually slips from her hand and her hand snaps up, snapping, clawing fingers hard around her shoulder instead of floundering from her wand.
Focus, focus, focus. Just get through the words. Two more lines. One. A few words. It feels like something is exploding inside her head.
Snaps, against the last word, as she feels it snap free. The words finishing. The pain giving. The explosion blooming in her head. When the words become not Latin, but English, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, bloody fuck,", and she's trying to curl toward her knees, and there's no counter balance in the thought of it, or the fact she'd been precariously balanced on a counter as it was.