heavy metals | vt, bette & annie
Aug 1, 2019 8:27:11 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Aug 1, 2019 8:27:11 GMT -5
The shadows stretch like a cat, lounging in the sun. The heat radiates off the cobblestone. At the register, Amma takes a sip of water.
"Bette," she says, as the sun sinks down towards the cobblestone streets. "She's here."
---
Morrisen's voice had echoed like the hollows of a cello: it was vast, ever-reaching. But her song did not move Bette, whose face was chiseled, stoic stone, her dark eyes the centers of whirlpools.
The sherwani — her father's, excavated out of the wardrobe and measured to her frame — was heavy. They had tried lighter options, of cotton instead of silk, embellished with tasteful stitching instead of rich embroidery. But they turned back to it, in the end. It felt right.
He grounded her today as she stood, watching: one hand on Amma's handlebars, the other on her cane.
Now, after all the fanfare is over, her killer escorted off towards garden parties and terraces overlooking the highlands, she sits in her basement workshop — now stripped of their true work, and tinkers with the innards of an old, plain, pocket-watch.
---
How does she feel?
(How should she feel?)
Her back complains, the gnarled bark responding to each step up the stairs. She is slow. Because of the pain with each movement. Because of the weight at the bottom of her stomach. Because of the flames that lap at her throat.
She takes another moment, at the top of the stairs, to breathe. She expected to see Morrisen tonight, at the dinner. But she hadn't planned on an exchange. What she said in that finale, she had meant it. Her heart, beating steady, did not change that.
So when she walks into the room, sees Anatalia among the wares, her wares, the kindest thing she can do is to wheel Amma, with her rigid face, out of the room. The kindest thing she can do is nod to a chair, as the room turns golden.
A pawn, a rook, a knight, a Queen: they do not lead the hegemony, but they are not harmless. She will not be taken in by the musings of a fool.
"Bette," she says, as the sun sinks down towards the cobblestone streets. "She's here."
---
Morrisen's voice had echoed like the hollows of a cello: it was vast, ever-reaching. But her song did not move Bette, whose face was chiseled, stoic stone, her dark eyes the centers of whirlpools.
The sherwani — her father's, excavated out of the wardrobe and measured to her frame — was heavy. They had tried lighter options, of cotton instead of silk, embellished with tasteful stitching instead of rich embroidery. But they turned back to it, in the end. It felt right.
He grounded her today as she stood, watching: one hand on Amma's handlebars, the other on her cane.
Now, after all the fanfare is over, her killer escorted off towards garden parties and terraces overlooking the highlands, she sits in her basement workshop — now stripped of their true work, and tinkers with the innards of an old, plain, pocket-watch.
---
How does she feel?
(How should she feel?)
Her back complains, the gnarled bark responding to each step up the stairs. She is slow. Because of the pain with each movement. Because of the weight at the bottom of her stomach. Because of the flames that lap at her throat.
She takes another moment, at the top of the stairs, to breathe. She expected to see Morrisen tonight, at the dinner. But she hadn't planned on an exchange. What she said in that finale, she had meant it. Her heart, beating steady, did not change that.
So when she walks into the room, sees Anatalia among the wares, her wares, the kindest thing she can do is to wheel Amma, with her rigid face, out of the room. The kindest thing she can do is nod to a chair, as the room turns golden.
A pawn, a rook, a knight, a Queen: they do not lead the hegemony, but they are not harmless. She will not be taken in by the musings of a fool.
