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[longwillows]

reach out?

the smell of fresh water in dry desert air. the feeling of cautious curiosity. a place as dangerous as it is resplendent.

c

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[longwillows]

[It's like ash in her mouth and acid at the back of her throat. A vile and too-familiar blend on her palate, the dry choke of fear and the sinking, sour twisting of shame. Even as she directs her own breathing and in turn directs Sharon's, the smell of smoke and charred flesh lingers in her nose. Though more visceral and violent from Sharon's end, that too is familiar.

I'm sorry, Sharon says—and Kalmiya hears it, hears her, but she's stricken with the endless echo of voices that follow it: people of every age and temperament all begging for forgiveness, seeking absolution that she could only go through the motions of providing. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Some restrained, some regretful, some desperate or even angry as they prayed to be free of their sins.

Quieter than the rest, closer, the helpless plea of her own young voice trailing all the rest—helpless because if she had to do all the forgiving, then who would be left to forgive her? I'm sorry.

As tight as Sharon's grasp is, the force of Kalmiya's grip matches it. Two great pillars overburdened by their own weight meeting in a precarious lean, each supported only by the crooked angle of the other, paradoxically finding the strength to continue standing by their mutual collapse. By that strength the burn in Kalmiya's chest is contained, the slow suffocation of a flame with no fuel. The brittleness at Sharon's side is worrying, though. She is made heavier by her attempts to hold it all in; stronger in some ways, and weaker in others.

Kalmiya's own eyes water as the ripple through the vastness of their tether washes over her, but she holds fast to her anchors. To her steady breathing, and the clinking of the crystals on her gala ensemble, and Sharon's shaking hand within her own—immediate, real, and far more important than the stretching maw of her own fears yawning beneath her like a taunt.]

It's okay, [she impresses with quiet determination, holding Sharon's tearful gaze.] You've done me no wrong.

[merged]

[ A chorus of apologies spills across the tether, layered echoes of memory stacked so thick they nearly smother one another. Each emotion rings out as its own note, weaving together into a terrible harmony of pleading. A yearning to be free of the pain that weighs them down, that bars the door to absolution. And then, beneath it all, distant but sharper than the rest, there is a smaller voice. Helpless. Frightened. Uncertain.

A girl carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders with no one there to help her bear it. In a society that wears its religion like a badge, it is the children, the girls, who suffer the most. Sacrificed in one monstrous way or another, made all the worse by the fact that no one ever thinks to shield them—that this is what they were born to be. The differences between them are vast, but the melody is painfully familiar.

Sharon shakes her head. Her heart feels dissected, split open with surgical care, its chambers laid bare as it keeps trying to beat, unable to abandon its duty even under that strain. ] I know, but— [ The words falter and die in her throat, but the thought completes within the tether. It rolls in like shadow, curls around the tether like smoke, and arrives with a certainty untouched by Sharon's grief. You didn't deserve to suffer that.

It's not absolution Sharon was looking for, even as she acknowledges her part in what happened—her stupid, foolish choice to continue to partake in the banquet. It was a show of empathy—a grief that someone she cared about would now carry this weight with them forever. Kalmiya, like Sharon herself, did not deserve that pain. Sharon would never offer it willingly, and if she could, she would take it back a million times over than to ever let that heat lick Kalmiya's sunkissed skin. ]

[longwillows]

[It's strange to be told that she didn't deserve her suffering, though not entirely unfamiliar. Stranger still is feeling that insistence. There is the raw, bleeding empathy—the profound grief for someone else's loss—but this is somehow different from that visceral pain. It's certainty, as sure as death comes for those who have lived. In the immediate, Sharon refers to the memory Kalmiya was just forcefully subjected to. The meaning, however, reaches far deeper.

Telling herself she didn't deserve the pain is different than being told by someone else. And believing that she didn't deserve it is a wide gulf further from either of those things. It is one thing to have faith in those who love her; it is another to have undeniable evidence of their feelings. Knowing that someone else truly, deeply, staunchly believes this—

Well, she doesn't really know what to do with that.

So she sets it aside. Focuses on what she does know how to handle: trauma, grief, and pain, especially that of others. Her skin still feels tender, the delicate striations of feathers on her back flickering weakly with light that blooms from within, the holy scourge of her bloodline magnetized to the vivid memory of burning.

In, hold, and out. In, hold, and out.

She turns in her seat now, her opposite hand coming to close around the other side of Sharon's, cradling the shaking appendage between hers with care and intent. It's okay. Weight, heat, comprehension, melancholy—but not regret. The shuffle of it all, organized into vocalized sentiment, thin with the emotion that still squeezes her throat.] It's not a burden to better understand the people I love.