[Kalmiya has fared well enough with the food and drink, at least in the sense that she has not yet been overwhelmed by memories that don't belong to her. She is good at reminding herself of where she is and who she is, even in circumstances as strange as these, even when her senses are assailed left and right by the psychic effects of the coerced consumption.
This, however, resonates with her in a way most unpleasant. It may be writ in a different style, but it is an undeniably familiar song. Its awful notes vibrate in the marrow of her bones and make the roots of her teeth ache, that horrible discordant hymn of zealotry—of faith turned to delusion and violence, pointless bloodletting as worship for forces unseen and uncaring.
It is painful enough in its basic rhythm. The melody overlaid, the sense of being this child, is in agonizing harmony with so many of her own memories. In no space is it identical—there is a malice to this cruelty that sets it apart from Kalmiya's own song—but every cry of fear, every horrible lick of flame, every hot lash of rage is felt as if it is her own, and it is not only by the nature of the tether or the curse of the food.
Sweat is dripping down the sides of her face by the time the memory passes, her own eyes wide in the whelm of the trance. Her chest feels hot in a way too familiar and yet far away, a holy spark snuffed by Sleep's reach in the waking world—one she hasn't had to fear catching for months now, but to which she reacts by second nature. It's different from the raw chemical reality of fire; there is something profound about this heat, pure energy that does not conflagrate but burns nonetheless where it blooms behind her ribs and at her end of the thrumming tether.
She meets Sharon's gaze as if pulled by gravity, stark white light flickering faintly in the folds of her irises. The boundary where her own pain ends and Sharon's begins has been lost to her perception, though it doesn't matter in this moment where they are both at risk of burning.
Instinctively she reaches for the hand which has discarded the fork. Curls her fingers over the gap between thumb and index finger until their palms are pressed together. Too cognizant of the clamminess that meets the unnatural heat beneath her own skin, Kalmiya holds on tight as she keeps her eyes locked on Sharon's. She says nothing, but it drifts along the tether in echo of the action that accompanies it:
Breathe. In, hold, and out. In, hold, and out, in a steadiness borne of years of managing this exact pain. This unbearable, primal anger.]
no subject
This, however, resonates with her in a way most unpleasant. It may be writ in a different style, but it is an undeniably familiar song. Its awful notes vibrate in the marrow of her bones and make the roots of her teeth ache, that horrible discordant hymn of zealotry—of faith turned to delusion and violence, pointless bloodletting as worship for forces unseen and uncaring.
It is painful enough in its basic rhythm. The melody overlaid, the sense of being this child, is in agonizing harmony with so many of her own memories. In no space is it identical—there is a malice to this cruelty that sets it apart from Kalmiya's own song—but every cry of fear, every horrible lick of flame, every hot lash of rage is felt as if it is her own, and it is not only by the nature of the tether or the curse of the food.
Sweat is dripping down the sides of her face by the time the memory passes, her own eyes wide in the whelm of the trance. Her chest feels hot in a way too familiar and yet far away, a holy spark snuffed by Sleep's reach in the waking world—one she hasn't had to fear catching for months now, but to which she reacts by second nature. It's different from the raw chemical reality of fire; there is something profound about this heat, pure energy that does not conflagrate but burns nonetheless where it blooms behind her ribs and at her end of the thrumming tether.
She meets Sharon's gaze as if pulled by gravity, stark white light flickering faintly in the folds of her irises. The boundary where her own pain ends and Sharon's begins has been lost to her perception, though it doesn't matter in this moment where they are both at risk of burning.
Instinctively she reaches for the hand which has discarded the fork. Curls her fingers over the gap between thumb and index finger until their palms are pressed together. Too cognizant of the clamminess that meets the unnatural heat beneath her own skin, Kalmiya holds on tight as she keeps her eyes locked on Sharon's. She says nothing, but it drifts along the tether in echo of the action that accompanies it:
Breathe. In, hold, and out. In, hold, and out, in a steadiness borne of years of managing this exact pain. This unbearable, primal anger.]