[M] the blackest hole in all of space

Eris Eternity · 08-30-2011, 04:38 AM

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She might promise with her lips, but her heart would never belong to Tak. She would never truly worship him. He was worthy of her respect -- there was no doubt within her of this now -- but he would not have her reverence. Not Tak, not any other god -- she was beyond them, above them, below them. Fury burned somewhere deep in her, but she choked it away as adeptly as she had choked all other emotion where this pale, pathetic thing was concerned. Eris had played the part of stable leader to the best of her ability -- which was, admittedly, not half-bad, all things considered -- but the feelings she had choked away and buried somewhere within her still tore at her insides, aching and begging for escape. Perhaps they would burn, too.

She regarded Larkspur with a sudden uncertainty. Fire was not what she would have wanted; it was not what she would have chosen. It would be so much easier to twist the little neck until the tiny head faced backwards, the muzzle pointed in an awkward, impossible angle. So much swifter, so much less painful. But tradition was one thing the sable woman did respect, in some half-understood way; regardless of the god such rituals were designed to please, there was power in them. She remembered and realized in the same single, sharply-inhaled breath that this was a reflection of what had been done in Eterne.

There, it was the strongest given to prompt strength in the rest. Here, the weakest would be culled to save the rest, Shibboleth's dark and infected blood given over to purify and save her sisters. Eris could only nod slowly, hardly a moment of hesitation passing from this movement's cessation to her slow turn, walking toward... what? She did not know where to go, and she did not step forward after turning. Instead, she turned back around, leaning forward to place the small silver thing at Larkspur's feet. She knew he would not touch the child; she knew he would not keep her warm and safe, but what use did either of them have for such feeble comforts any longer? Even Shibboleth would find them utterly otiose, if she was even capable of understanding such things.

The coal-hued hybrid did not speak; instead, she moved off and away, back toward her home. It was not so very far -- Salsola's territory was small and compact, just enough room for what they needed. Their small pack did not require expansive hunting lands; they were not so numerous that they needed to swallow so much more than their ruins and their village. Only a spare few moments were spent within her home; though the sable wolf eyed the chest where her bear's skull and cloak were kept, she made no move for either. There was magic enough here, twisted and sick as it was, without all her fancy augmentations. She only took the matches.

The owl hooted as she began to depart, but Eris paid him no mind, knowing he would remain perched above her entryway. He hadn't moved since she'd placed him there, thinking it would be a good perch for him. Sandalio was yet a stranger, and she had yet to take interest in him -- more pressing matters currently occupied her mind. The matches clutched in her hand, the coyote stood in her doorway a moment, wondering if she should wake the other children. No doubt they would be sleeping soundly at this hour. She would not rouse them, not for this. A strange sort of dreamy indifference had overtaken the woman, and she meandered back toward Larkspur slowly, feeling as though she moved beneath water.

Eris did not immediately return to his side, and her chartreuse eyes deliberately avoided that small, gray shape, still motionless by his feet. Tufts of dry grass were pulled together, twigs and sticks. They did not need a lot of fuel to burn this fire -- their pyre would be pitiably small. Shibboleth was not a grand offering, some mammoth elk with twenty years of growth. Eris's pit was crudely constructed, lacking particular skill in putting it together. The black hybrid worked silently, though occasionally small, strange sounds came forth from her -- perhaps the beginnings of a whimper or mutter, always choked back to silence by the dark Auxiliary herself.

When it was done, she stopped a moment, as if to study her handiwork -- in reality, she steeled herself to turn back toward Larkspur and her child. Every muscle, every bone, every drop of blood in her screamed to turn and run from him and Shibboleth. Instead, the dark woman turned back toward her mate, eyes on the ground, seeking that motionless little bundle. If it were not for the slight shudder of ribs, Eris would have believed Shibboleth already dead. That smell of death was readily apparent in the air, emanating forth from that tiny body with surprising force. Larkspur was right -- there was nothing they could do to prolong life within this one, and she had been the fool for trying.

The dark woman stepped forward, leaning down to the small shape, her fingers sliding beneath that feverish little body. Her ears were pressed firmly into her mane, and she could not quell the trembling in her arms as she lifted that feather-light weight, turning back toward the spit. She laid the child down slowly, tucking grass and leaves and twigs all around the silvery body. Shibboleth did not move or stir now; even the shaking had seemed to fade from her body, and Eris imagined or deluded herself that there was peace written onto that tiny face.

She lit the fire. The hybrid reeled back as if expecting an explosion, an impossible blazing of light -- she went so far as to lift her hand to shield her face, though soon enough, her chartreuse eyes turned back toward the pyre she had constructed. There, a tiny wisp of smoke shot up and arced through the air, slithering out with the wind over the bay. A tiny ember burned brightly, and flame burst from that ember, eagerly devouring the dried grass and twigs. There was a pop and snap as a branch caught fire, and now Eris saw Shibboleth, illuminated in red and yellow.

For one terrible moment, the sable hybrid thought the girl's eyes had opened, bright baby blue in all that red and orange -- her stomach rolled and she gave a shudder, shrinking back and away from the flame. It was impossible; the pale child had not moved except to shake and shiver at random intervals for days now, let alone open her eyes. Her siblings were strong and healthy, their eyes already opened to the world and devouring every inch of it.

She wanted Larkspur; she wanted to fling her arms around his neck and hide her face from the sight of the fire in his mane, but her pride stubbornly refuted this idea each time she thought of it, recoiling at the idea of prostrating herself so plainly. She was lucky to hold her position now; she would be luckier still if she did such a thing now, after displaying so much weakness to him. Instead, she curled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms about them. Her muzzle she rested on her forearm, leveling her gaze with the fire, forcing herself to look.

Now the smell of smoking meat was on the air, not so different from when they cooked food. The fire had consumed all shapes within it now, and Shibboleth was little more than fuel for the licking flames, soon to be smoldering embers and ash. The column of smoke rose thick and black now, though the breeze was carrying it away from the ruins and out over the water. She found her gaze following it, drawn to it -- it seemed to billow up and up forever, impossibly long, reaching for the place where the moon should be, the empty and black expanse of sky up above.

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