don't wanna go outside | {the night brigade, day 3}

By some sheer miracle Tune is still alive, as is Carly, as is Andrew.

And Lux Bellisario is dead by her hands.

Tune huffs something that might be a laugh, or perhaps a yelp of horror. "Same here," she replies to Andrew - still in shock. Hands still shaking, clenching them into fists - remembering what it was like to kill someone, to twist the blade for good measure - she unclenches them, a stranger's hands.

An old wench back home had looked at her palms once and screeched, a bony finger pointing to a jagged life line. Tune had brushed her off, scowling - thirteen years old and pretending to be cruel and unbothered to hide her fear. She had scoffed, rolling her eyes, claimed it poppycock. Trickery. A ruse. Now she wasn't sure what to believe. Was the line in her palms prophesying her death, or the death that these hands would wield?

She finds herself staring at her palms, smears of red, as they reach the sights of the tavern and its welcoming glow. Welcome home, it seems to say. Come and rest your weary heads, your weary souls.

Clench, unclench - she had wanted to run to him. To both of them. Take their bleeding faces in her hands and brush her thumbs over their cheeks, tender and careful, making sure they were still alive. Still breathing. Because it was her fault, again, again it had been she who had rushed ahead - brash, risking her life and many more.

And Tune had paid for it. That sick, gnawing ache in the pit of her stomach tells her that much.

"Let's hope so," a dead girl's glaive sits strong in her grip - she feels like Carly, that gives her strength. "I'd kill for a lie down-"

Oh.

She stops in her tracks. Jagged line, Tune digs her fingernails into her palm until it bleeds once more.