you shot me with a wooden gun — roe & vin
Oct 28, 2023 18:08:12 GMT -5
Post by fox on Oct 28, 2023 18:08:12 GMT -5
❦
blood mopped up, the laceration cleaves a fault between ribs. no organs punctured. the rhythm of his breathing rises and falls, unfaltering. i listen to it and learn it.
i touch the edges of his knee, and the contusion bruises in black along his leg. all these years of prayer over the wounded, devotion and injury feels like something similar. i learned the litanies, the tinctures. the organs and anatomies in preparation for slaughter. i have learned all things as sacrifice. there is no speaking of life without death.
rows of small bottles line the counters. they rattle with foreign pills. a scalpel on the table, a curved shining needle, doused and wiped with alcohol. i unspool the thread.
Ginnarr.
the soft inflating of lungs.
monumental, it feels i think. to look away from the birds. to stare at the wound.
my head hurts.
at home, the vǫlur would weave the healers with spell. rune songs of the second, recited over the dying. here in the bright, sterile room, i listen to the hum of the lights above, and steady my hands. he cannot be sedated.
my fox. the ridges of his bones. ribs. spine. the smell of ripeness and nightshade, how the knife slipped through and he let me, unsurprised by the pain of my tenderness before life left his body.
Ginnarr –
somewhere, i feel the hazy flame of my dream. i look down to my hands. the needle, the sting of antiseptic, the wound, and Roe. i am here now. line up the edges, straight down, loop, tie. i repeat it over and over.
careful, i touch the small of his back. "hey. lie down." then, the white willow bark, "bite down. then, eat."
it will still hurt.
you did not have to stay in the cage, i want to tell him.
but he did. his jaw tenses. i taste the bitterness. he is who he is.
there is no other way the story can go.
i know.
i say nothing, and slide the needle through his chest.
i touch the edges of his knee, and the contusion bruises in black along his leg. all these years of prayer over the wounded, devotion and injury feels like something similar. i learned the litanies, the tinctures. the organs and anatomies in preparation for slaughter. i have learned all things as sacrifice. there is no speaking of life without death.
rows of small bottles line the counters. they rattle with foreign pills. a scalpel on the table, a curved shining needle, doused and wiped with alcohol. i unspool the thread.
Ginnarr.
the soft inflating of lungs.
monumental, it feels i think. to look away from the birds. to stare at the wound.
my head hurts.
at home, the vǫlur would weave the healers with spell. rune songs of the second, recited over the dying. here in the bright, sterile room, i listen to the hum of the lights above, and steady my hands. he cannot be sedated.
my fox. the ridges of his bones. ribs. spine. the smell of ripeness and nightshade, how the knife slipped through and he let me, unsurprised by the pain of my tenderness before life left his body.
Ginnarr –
somewhere, i feel the hazy flame of my dream. i look down to my hands. the needle, the sting of antiseptic, the wound, and Roe. i am here now. line up the edges, straight down, loop, tie. i repeat it over and over.
careful, i touch the small of his back. "hey. lie down." then, the white willow bark, "bite down. then, eat."
it will still hurt.
you did not have to stay in the cage, i want to tell him.
but he did. his jaw tenses. i taste the bitterness. he is who he is.
there is no other way the story can go.
i know.
i say nothing, and slide the needle through his chest.
vin scavenges Operating Rooms
otQ_MYvIRW1-10
4 | Scalpel (Knife)
