Both Maro and herself, streaked in mud and faces contorted in anger, faced off against each other like they were going to war. Their weapons were their words. Hers had found their mark, she could see it in his eyes. He was furious and hurt and embarrassed. The tops of his ears burned with shame and his curious green eyes were narrow slits of rage. For the first time she could see something in him that was not quite human. Something more primal tempered with a human soul. He opened his mouth to retort and she could see the flash of teeth that were just a bit too long.
Even so, she didn't fear he would attack her. Not physically, anyway. He wanted to. She could see it in the knot of his fist. He wouldn't because he was kind. Kinder than she deserved. But he was also wrong. So bitterly, hatefully wrong. And she wasn't going to move on until she had etched it into his soul.
Suddenly Autumn drifted between the two, her hand on her companions shoulder. The tenseness he dropped in the face of his friend, Madeira picked up tenfold. She waited for the woman's previous rage to come back in force, and braced herself for the attack she knew was coming
But it never did.
Autumn spoke with a kind of suffering so complete it could be mistaken for calm. There was a weariness in her soul that moved with the current of her soulmist. And all at once Madeira was ashamed. When did she move on from saving the dead to attacking the living? He wasn't the problem, as grievously misinformed as he was. He was the easy solution, not the only solution. And if she could look past herself and be as tough and as brave as she needed to be, she need not push the man past the barrier of decency set by his own mother figure.
The ghost asked that Madeira save her hate for her, for raising Maro as she did. And the Spiritist, coward that she was, looked away so as not to suffer her gaze.
When Autumn turned back to Maro, Madeira watched the dynamic between the two. With a touch and a few words the rage left him in a gust of air and unknotted muscles. Mother or not, they loved and trusted each other in a way Madeira could not comprehend. The man then approached her himself, and agreed to help, with a condition that Madeira found hard to swallow. But swallow she did. Her hope was back in the glimmer of her eye. But it was weak and guarded, waiting for the moment he again decided to snatch it away.
"Thank you." She held out a stiff hand to shake. "You are wrong, and stubborn, and I'm not sure I like you. But you are brave and kind and chosen. And I'd be... And I appreciate your help. Djamila will too." Her resentment was not so easily let go as his, but she made the effort to put it aside. She really did need his help, she might as well be appreciative for it.
"Lead the way", she stepped aside and motioned with her hand. The beach was long, and full of secret caves and tide pools and hidden crevasses. Madeira had no idea where to even start looking.
Even so, she didn't fear he would attack her. Not physically, anyway. He wanted to. She could see it in the knot of his fist. He wouldn't because he was kind. Kinder than she deserved. But he was also wrong. So bitterly, hatefully wrong. And she wasn't going to move on until she had etched it into his soul.
Suddenly Autumn drifted between the two, her hand on her companions shoulder. The tenseness he dropped in the face of his friend, Madeira picked up tenfold. She waited for the woman's previous rage to come back in force, and braced herself for the attack she knew was coming
But it never did.
Autumn spoke with a kind of suffering so complete it could be mistaken for calm. There was a weariness in her soul that moved with the current of her soulmist. And all at once Madeira was ashamed. When did she move on from saving the dead to attacking the living? He wasn't the problem, as grievously misinformed as he was. He was the easy solution, not the only solution. And if she could look past herself and be as tough and as brave as she needed to be, she need not push the man past the barrier of decency set by his own mother figure.
The ghost asked that Madeira save her hate for her, for raising Maro as she did. And the Spiritist, coward that she was, looked away so as not to suffer her gaze.
When Autumn turned back to Maro, Madeira watched the dynamic between the two. With a touch and a few words the rage left him in a gust of air and unknotted muscles. Mother or not, they loved and trusted each other in a way Madeira could not comprehend. The man then approached her himself, and agreed to help, with a condition that Madeira found hard to swallow. But swallow she did. Her hope was back in the glimmer of her eye. But it was weak and guarded, waiting for the moment he again decided to snatch it away.
"Thank you." She held out a stiff hand to shake. "You are wrong, and stubborn, and I'm not sure I like you. But you are brave and kind and chosen. And I'd be... And I appreciate your help. Djamila will too." Her resentment was not so easily let go as his, but she made the effort to put it aside. She really did need his help, she might as well be appreciative for it.
"Lead the way", she stepped aside and motioned with her hand. The beach was long, and full of secret caves and tide pools and hidden crevasses. Madeira had no idea where to even start looking.