03-17-2014, 05:48 PM
The sun was bleeding pink and gold into the horizon by the time she arrived at the cemetery. Snow crunched underfoot, and chilled the air that left her lips. No mourners braved the frigid temperature; only shadows and headstones pierced the blanket of white, stretching in a panorama almost as far as she could see. The cold bit through her jacket, froze the pump of blood through her veins, blanched her already pale skin. The silence of the dead did not disturb her. Nor did she find sanctuary in the dusk.
For some reason, she hadn't anticipated the wreathes and flowers around the headstone, and it hooked something in her gut that urged her to abandon her guilt and turn around. She owed nothing to this family; the loyalty of her blood ran weak. But she stood at the foot of the grave anyway, running her gaze over the cursive letting half hidden by an arrangement of roses, their petals drooping beneath the weight of glittering ice. When she finally knelt she probably looked reverential, but she was not grieving. Her brows were drawn low, and her expression burned. Anger roiled, conflicted.
She refused to name it jealousy, but dark thoughts sprung regardless the name she gave them. If Oriena had died all those years ago, extinguished by the very power that today made her great, her grave would have been sparse, perhaps even lacking a headstone, let alone offerings of grief to beautify her resting place. Fuck, if she died tomorrow there were few who'd mourn the loss. Her mother would grieve, she supposed. It was a short list after that. The cat probably didn't count.
"Should I have brought flowers?"
Bitterness coated her tongue, but not all of it was spat out; she swallowed a good deal of the acid and let it burn her insides. Numbness crept through her shins, and the skin stretched over her cheek ached. Goading Luka hadn't provided as much absolution as she'd hoped. She deserved the mottle of bruises, deserved the pain, but he didn't understand why. It had negated her intentions when he'd comprehended the punch that had laid her out flat and remorse had flushed his expression. She'd only loaded guilt onto his grief. That shouldn't have mattered an iota to Oriena, but when it came to the brother she refused to name so, her head was a tangle of snarled emotion.
This was a problem of time. Of patience, not always at the forefront of Ori's virtues. After all, Sofiya was dead. Flowers would die, and quickly in the embrace of winter. Memories faded. Life rolled on, and did not care for the dead. Ori half wished she'd brought some vodka, to drown her promises in liquid fire. She might not regret it, but she did wonder if she could have done something. Offered a hand across the precipice.
It was not a benevolent thought, but it was a new one, recently ignited and burning very bright.
For some reason, she hadn't anticipated the wreathes and flowers around the headstone, and it hooked something in her gut that urged her to abandon her guilt and turn around. She owed nothing to this family; the loyalty of her blood ran weak. But she stood at the foot of the grave anyway, running her gaze over the cursive letting half hidden by an arrangement of roses, their petals drooping beneath the weight of glittering ice. When she finally knelt she probably looked reverential, but she was not grieving. Her brows were drawn low, and her expression burned. Anger roiled, conflicted.
She refused to name it jealousy, but dark thoughts sprung regardless the name she gave them. If Oriena had died all those years ago, extinguished by the very power that today made her great, her grave would have been sparse, perhaps even lacking a headstone, let alone offerings of grief to beautify her resting place. Fuck, if she died tomorrow there were few who'd mourn the loss. Her mother would grieve, she supposed. It was a short list after that. The cat probably didn't count.
"Should I have brought flowers?"
Bitterness coated her tongue, but not all of it was spat out; she swallowed a good deal of the acid and let it burn her insides. Numbness crept through her shins, and the skin stretched over her cheek ached. Goading Luka hadn't provided as much absolution as she'd hoped. She deserved the mottle of bruises, deserved the pain, but he didn't understand why. It had negated her intentions when he'd comprehended the punch that had laid her out flat and remorse had flushed his expression. She'd only loaded guilt onto his grief. That shouldn't have mattered an iota to Oriena, but when it came to the brother she refused to name so, her head was a tangle of snarled emotion.
This was a problem of time. Of patience, not always at the forefront of Ori's virtues. After all, Sofiya was dead. Flowers would die, and quickly in the embrace of winter. Memories faded. Life rolled on, and did not care for the dead. Ori half wished she'd brought some vodka, to drown her promises in liquid fire. She might not regret it, but she did wonder if she could have done something. Offered a hand across the precipice.
It was not a benevolent thought, but it was a new one, recently ignited and burning very bright.
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