[Hayame has almost grown used to the vague presence of another in the stark white chill of her hearts. Almost. She does not want to puzzle over how or why the bond remained when the other one that the dryad forced upon her had faded and finally been severed when the Tribune had cleansed her Discord, freeing her from the creeping specter of the smirking demon that had ripped the eye from her head and shamed her with his "mercy" before mocking her with offers of peace between them. She assumes it was because of her demand, their vow, the single strand of hair in her ink black mane that now sometimes seemed crimson in the light...
For whatever reason, he is there, lingering and easier to reach out to in Communion than some others she has attempted to speak to. So she tells Set where she has gone, and she tells herself it was done more as simple notice than precaution.
But what she finds in the Hall of Mirrors is nothing like what she expected, nor hoped.
The cold of the labyrinthine paths deadened her sense of smell, the reflective surfaces confused her eyes, and the echoing sounds in the chambers muddied her ears. She had thought to root out Zenith ambushes, perhaps traps, not imagined that the strange, icy sheets would show her scenes from the past she never liked to acknowledge. The further she had gone, the worse the images had been, and though she tried to ignore them... it became difficult to not confront them. The dead eyes of the filly she'd once been, her younger half-brother standing in horror beside her as they watched the stable master oversee the flensing of a disobedient yearling's arms. The distant gaze of the young mare in her first season, standing for Exhibition Day and mentally going anywhere but the line where potential buyers were allowed to run their hands over legs, check their teeth with their fingers, pull their tails up to inspect suitability for the breeding stables. The fire burning in the eyes of the woman who looked between her master's enemy and the raging waterfall and instead of believing in his offers of freedom... grabbing the rope that bound them together and throwing herself into the water.
And sometime in between the maze-like halls leading deeper into the castle and the realization that the eyes were watching her, following her... any connection she might have had with other shard-bearers goes dead. It isn't until hours later, once she had throttled the life out of a version of her herself that emerged from the ice and watched the doppelganger shatter along with the mirror she kicks to pieces, once she has dragged herself most of the way back but collapsed upon the stairs... that she hears a voice again.
It's his voice.]
Take that insult back.
[No matter how wretched she feels, part of her [TIME] stolen and body aching for it even though she'd reclaimed it, alone in the dark with the glow of the ice lurking behind her. As if this wasn't communion, a place where a lie or a front could be easily exposed-]
I merely lost track of time. I did not know war gods were able to fret about schedules so.
cw: sa, slavery, forced amputations, etc.
For whatever reason, he is there, lingering and easier to reach out to in Communion than some others she has attempted to speak to. So she tells Set where she has gone, and she tells herself it was done more as simple notice than precaution.
But what she finds in the Hall of Mirrors is nothing like what she expected, nor hoped.
The cold of the labyrinthine paths deadened her sense of smell, the reflective surfaces confused her eyes, and the echoing sounds in the chambers muddied her ears. She had thought to root out Zenith ambushes, perhaps traps, not imagined that the strange, icy sheets would show her scenes from the past she never liked to acknowledge. The further she had gone, the worse the images had been, and though she tried to ignore them... it became difficult to not confront them. The dead eyes of the filly she'd once been, her younger half-brother standing in horror beside her as they watched the stable master oversee the flensing of a disobedient yearling's arms. The distant gaze of the young mare in her first season, standing for Exhibition Day and mentally going anywhere but the line where potential buyers were allowed to run their hands over legs, check their teeth with their fingers, pull their tails up to inspect suitability for the breeding stables. The fire burning in the eyes of the woman who looked between her master's enemy and the raging waterfall and instead of believing in his offers of freedom... grabbing the rope that bound them together and throwing herself into the water.
And sometime in between the maze-like halls leading deeper into the castle and the realization that the eyes were watching her, following her... any connection she might have had with other shard-bearers goes dead. It isn't until hours later, once she had throttled the life out of a version of her herself that emerged from the ice and watched the doppelganger shatter along with the mirror she kicks to pieces, once she has dragged herself most of the way back but collapsed upon the stairs... that she hears a voice again.
It's his voice.]
Take that insult back.
[No matter how wretched she feels, part of her [TIME] stolen and body aching for it even though she'd reclaimed it, alone in the dark with the glow of the ice lurking behind her. As if this wasn't communion, a place where a lie or a front could be easily exposed-]
I merely lost track of time. I did not know war gods were able to fret about schedules so.