what myths must make us [mystery inc v. scout's honor]
Jul 19, 2021 11:55:38 GMT -5
Post by tick 12a / calla on Jul 19, 2021 11:55:38 GMT -5
A R E T O
► ► ►
"I told Reece to kill Emerson." Aspen's voice says.
And Areto freezes. She goes so still that the rain becomes salt-water and the thunder is nothing but the distant sound of a drum. She turns to Aspen slowly, maw of a tiger and eyes of a snake, and she does nothing but look at her through the blood.
"It was my plan." She says, and Areto feels like she's being gutted all over again. Aspen is standing over her with her spear, backlit by the lightning, flaying her open and letting the rain seep in. It makes her cold and horrible and turns that burning fire into something frigid.
She looks at Aspen and sees the dusk. She sees the red of the setting sun and hears the last call of the owl and she can feel the chill of the night settle over her. She is swept under by the waves and dashed on the rocks, left to drown by the Mother. Because Aspen had stood with her under that birth of stars and had let her believe that she was something better than she is. She'd smiled and Areto had smiled back and thought that it meant something.
Areto had fallen for it. She'd wanted to fall for it. She'd been vulnerable and so, so stupid and there's such a sudden and visceral tide of shame that washes over her, it almost knocks her off her feet.
Emerson's hair tickles the side of her neck and Areto can hear the way she had talked about her brother and her family and herself. She hears her footsteps in the stairwell and the sound of her cannon echoing in the thunder over and over again. But it's the rain that makes her face wet and it's the hole in her stomach that gives her chest pain. She feels terrible. She feels angry and frustrated and there's a ringing in her ears that won't go away.
They are not the same. Aspen is not Emerson is not Areto. The world is cruel enough to only tell her this now.
The atmosphere upends into Julian then Love then Reece then Aspen. She's searching for the vengeance of a girl she hardly knew and calling it her own. She's forcing vision of honour and grandiose onto herself and hiding away all the ugly bits. She has heard three accounts of the same event and is too blind, too proud, to see the discrepancies.
Revenge, her heart argues, Devotion.
Aspen looks at her and Areto forces her gaze blank.
Does that make someone like you heartless too?
Maybe it does.
Aspen's spear comes flying towards her again and Areto grabs it with one blood soaked hand. When the point cuts into her, she does not feel it.
She pushes it back viciously, light-headedness making her calloused.
“Wait your turn.” She says coldly, unflinchingly, and her voice slips through the storm like a knife slips through a ribcage.
It’s day one all over again - she’s threatening the enemy over the body of a dead girl.
Because that's what this is. Aspen is dead to her. She's lying at the bottom of the creek and Areto is wading through the water with fishing net. She is not worth the distraction. She never was. Areto is Galatea, a woman scorned and a friend cheated and she is so unbelievably angry that she can hardly even feel it. There's nothing but the shrillness of the keening and the pounding of the blood in her head. She's tired of people lying to her, trying to use her and push her in the way they want. The Island had sent her for that reason. She was their puppet and their warrior and their hero, and she was also none of that.
She was their daughter. She is their child. She could crush the world between her palms and face the punishment with a steel spine.
Love had accused Areto of hating him, but she didn't think she was capable of hate. She was capable of justification, and of righteousness and going through life with the black and white morals of someone who has known nothing but surety all their life. She didn't hate, because hatred was an ugly tool designed for the monsters and the villains and the people who knew no better.
Aspen is the first grey smudge on her ledger, more than Love, more than Reece. They did not pretend. They did not deceive her. Aspen's silhouette sits on the crest of a wave and maybe the first time in her life, Areto hates.
Apate croons in her ear, begging to be freed from her pithos, and Areto's arms strain from holding the stopper. Her shoulders bow but her face rises and she can feel her jaw clench. The fist of Polyphemus sits heavy in her left lung and holds it open for the rainwater. She chokes on it, spitting up eighteen years worth of misconceptions and idealism.
Everything shifts back into focus an eternity later. She can hear Blade and Avriel through a fog and she can see Ariel through a mist. She wants to gather them close and sleep for a millennia, snapping her teeth at whoever comes too near, but the air is heavy, and Blade's blood mingles in the mud with Areto's.
Mother bear - she surges forward and sees nothing but red.
And Areto freezes. She goes so still that the rain becomes salt-water and the thunder is nothing but the distant sound of a drum. She turns to Aspen slowly, maw of a tiger and eyes of a snake, and she does nothing but look at her through the blood.
"It was my plan." She says, and Areto feels like she's being gutted all over again. Aspen is standing over her with her spear, backlit by the lightning, flaying her open and letting the rain seep in. It makes her cold and horrible and turns that burning fire into something frigid.
She looks at Aspen and sees the dusk. She sees the red of the setting sun and hears the last call of the owl and she can feel the chill of the night settle over her. She is swept under by the waves and dashed on the rocks, left to drown by the Mother. Because Aspen had stood with her under that birth of stars and had let her believe that she was something better than she is. She'd smiled and Areto had smiled back and thought that it meant something.
Areto had fallen for it. She'd wanted to fall for it. She'd been vulnerable and so, so stupid and there's such a sudden and visceral tide of shame that washes over her, it almost knocks her off her feet.
Emerson's hair tickles the side of her neck and Areto can hear the way she had talked about her brother and her family and herself. She hears her footsteps in the stairwell and the sound of her cannon echoing in the thunder over and over again. But it's the rain that makes her face wet and it's the hole in her stomach that gives her chest pain. She feels terrible. She feels angry and frustrated and there's a ringing in her ears that won't go away.
They are not the same. Aspen is not Emerson is not Areto. The world is cruel enough to only tell her this now.
The atmosphere upends into Julian then Love then Reece then Aspen. She's searching for the vengeance of a girl she hardly knew and calling it her own. She's forcing vision of honour and grandiose onto herself and hiding away all the ugly bits. She has heard three accounts of the same event and is too blind, too proud, to see the discrepancies.
Revenge, her heart argues, Devotion.
Aspen looks at her and Areto forces her gaze blank.
Does that make someone like you heartless too?
Maybe it does.
Aspen's spear comes flying towards her again and Areto grabs it with one blood soaked hand. When the point cuts into her, she does not feel it.
She pushes it back viciously, light-headedness making her calloused.
“Wait your turn.” She says coldly, unflinchingly, and her voice slips through the storm like a knife slips through a ribcage.
It’s day one all over again - she’s threatening the enemy over the body of a dead girl.
Because that's what this is. Aspen is dead to her. She's lying at the bottom of the creek and Areto is wading through the water with fishing net. She is not worth the distraction. She never was. Areto is Galatea, a woman scorned and a friend cheated and she is so unbelievably angry that she can hardly even feel it. There's nothing but the shrillness of the keening and the pounding of the blood in her head. She's tired of people lying to her, trying to use her and push her in the way they want. The Island had sent her for that reason. She was their puppet and their warrior and their hero, and she was also none of that.
She was their daughter. She is their child. She could crush the world between her palms and face the punishment with a steel spine.
Love had accused Areto of hating him, but she didn't think she was capable of hate. She was capable of justification, and of righteousness and going through life with the black and white morals of someone who has known nothing but surety all their life. She didn't hate, because hatred was an ugly tool designed for the monsters and the villains and the people who knew no better.
Aspen is the first grey smudge on her ledger, more than Love, more than Reece. They did not pretend. They did not deceive her. Aspen's silhouette sits on the crest of a wave and maybe the first time in her life, Areto hates.
Apate croons in her ear, begging to be freed from her pithos, and Areto's arms strain from holding the stopper. Her shoulders bow but her face rises and she can feel her jaw clench. The fist of Polyphemus sits heavy in her left lung and holds it open for the rainwater. She chokes on it, spitting up eighteen years worth of misconceptions and idealism.
Everything shifts back into focus an eternity later. She can hear Blade and Avriel through a fog and she can see Ariel through a mist. She wants to gather them close and sleep for a millennia, snapping her teeth at whoever comes too near, but the air is heavy, and Blade's blood mingles in the mud with Areto's.
Mother bear - she surges forward and sees nothing but red.
areto attacks willa ; fire poker (spear)
n|YhXaQ47lspear
Shallow Cut on Back of Head -- 4.5 damage
