04-10-2009, 01:19 PM
306
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She saw him. She moved, shifted, paused -- watching him. He could see her milky eyes seek him out (how was that possible?), tracing patterns across his face. His gaze was relaxed, and for a few moments, neither of them said anything. They watched. They waited. There was silence in their eyes and a certain heaviness in their claws. But that weight only served to keep them grounded. Slothfulness lived in his claws. Hybrid frowned. He did not move. She lifted her head, still watching him. Hybrid returned the girl's gaze with a small jerk of his head.
She spoke. Her words were quiet and firm. Strong? Perhaps. He smiled; like all his smiles, this one was twisted and lopsided, an awkward shaping of his maw and scarred flews. He was not sure why he did this -- it felt right, as if he were bound by some secret societal convention. Perhaps he knew it instinctively. Perhaps he was just imagining things, like the sad woman's voice who claimed the hate was all-encompassing (because it was and she was right).
He shifted his gaze, watching the girl's scars as she waited. He felt a quick streak of pride knowing he had inflicted those wounds and he had permitted the girl to live. He was an artist and this girl could be his walking masterpiece. Someday, perhaps he would be able to leave fleshy wounds where her blue-stained fur was. It would be beautiful. She would be complete.
He saw her eyes. "Because you were waiting," he replied. She had been waiting for something. Not someone. Something. An idea or a thought. Or had that been him? What was he waiting for? Was he even waiting for someone? He wished the woman's voice would return. She would know. She could answer that. Her rage would reveal it.
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She spoke. Her words were quiet and firm. Strong? Perhaps. He smiled; like all his smiles, this one was twisted and lopsided, an awkward shaping of his maw and scarred flews. He was not sure why he did this -- it felt right, as if he were bound by some secret societal convention. Perhaps he knew it instinctively. Perhaps he was just imagining things, like the sad woman's voice who claimed the hate was all-encompassing (because it was and she was right).
He shifted his gaze, watching the girl's scars as she waited. He felt a quick streak of pride knowing he had inflicted those wounds and he had permitted the girl to live. He was an artist and this girl could be his walking masterpiece. Someday, perhaps he would be able to leave fleshy wounds where her blue-stained fur was. It would be beautiful. She would be complete.
He saw her eyes. "Because you were waiting," he replied. She had been waiting for something. Not someone. Something. An idea or a thought. Or had that been him? What was he waiting for? Was he even waiting for someone? He wished the woman's voice would return. She would know. She could answer that. Her rage would reveal it.