Post by Carbon Kiwi on Jul 20, 2011 13:56:51 GMT 10
Title: History of Guilt
Rating: PG-13
Couple/Character: Dedicate Rosethorn, Mind-healer Dedicate Cicelysong
Event: 400 word dash
Words: 400
Warnings: Mentions of death
Summary: “I didn’t live through something special: I lived through history.”
“What do you mean, Rosethorn?”
“It’s history.” Rosethorn sat forward in her chair, emphasising each word beyond the slur; she seldom acknowledged its increased presence following her travels. “I didn’t live through something special: I lived through history. History is people who shouldn’t have power possessing it anyway and seeking only more, wars over things that should not provoke fighting but do in abundance and pain on those who should not incur it but paint the earth red regardless. History. It should be made to honour the dead, not the living. I lived; that isn’t special.”
Dedicate Cicelysong listened intently; she had rarely heard Rosethorn speak so many words so passionately. “You would prefer they had lived and you had died?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The raised eyebrow, the look of disbelief. “I am an old woman with a slur and joints that expand by the year; I’m no use to anyone anymore.”
“None of them were old, then? Or sick? Wounded, haunted, imperfect?”
“Of course they were. It doesn’t mean they deserved to have their homes invaded and their lives taken in the slaughter of an Emperor’s hunger for land and power.”
“But you deserve to be killed because you were a traveller; because it was not your home; because you could not save them all? Should Lark die in the stead of those who died where she travelled? Should she die because she could not stop the deaths in the Mire?”
Rosethorn bit her lip: she was tender in the area of Lark; where Rosethorn’s logic would apply to Lark she often found it faltered. Her temptation was to lash out, but Cicelysong gave as good as she got. Rosethorn was here for healing; she knew better than most that healing involved discomfort, pain and tempers flaring—usually her own.
“Do you know what we call those feelings, Rosethorn?”
“Probably some ridiculous word to represents a redundant phrase.”
“Survivor’s guilt. We call it survivor’s guilt.”
Rosethorn stared. Dedicate Cicelysong held out her hand; Rosethorn grasped it and felt the woman’s healing presence journey up her arm and neck into her mind. Images floated through her conscious mind: a ruined temple rebuilding itself; a dying emperor falling to broken knees; a caged bird released into the wild; green life overtaking a soldier-occupied village; Lark, Briar and Crane holding hands.
Cicelysong provided her with a pouch of herbs. That night, she slept.
Rating: PG-13
Couple/Character: Dedicate Rosethorn, Mind-healer Dedicate Cicelysong
Event: 400 word dash
Words: 400
Warnings: Mentions of death
Summary: “I didn’t live through something special: I lived through history.”
“What do you mean, Rosethorn?”
“It’s history.” Rosethorn sat forward in her chair, emphasising each word beyond the slur; she seldom acknowledged its increased presence following her travels. “I didn’t live through something special: I lived through history. History is people who shouldn’t have power possessing it anyway and seeking only more, wars over things that should not provoke fighting but do in abundance and pain on those who should not incur it but paint the earth red regardless. History. It should be made to honour the dead, not the living. I lived; that isn’t special.”
Dedicate Cicelysong listened intently; she had rarely heard Rosethorn speak so many words so passionately. “You would prefer they had lived and you had died?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The raised eyebrow, the look of disbelief. “I am an old woman with a slur and joints that expand by the year; I’m no use to anyone anymore.”
“None of them were old, then? Or sick? Wounded, haunted, imperfect?”
“Of course they were. It doesn’t mean they deserved to have their homes invaded and their lives taken in the slaughter of an Emperor’s hunger for land and power.”
“But you deserve to be killed because you were a traveller; because it was not your home; because you could not save them all? Should Lark die in the stead of those who died where she travelled? Should she die because she could not stop the deaths in the Mire?”
Rosethorn bit her lip: she was tender in the area of Lark; where Rosethorn’s logic would apply to Lark she often found it faltered. Her temptation was to lash out, but Cicelysong gave as good as she got. Rosethorn was here for healing; she knew better than most that healing involved discomfort, pain and tempers flaring—usually her own.
“Do you know what we call those feelings, Rosethorn?”
“Probably some ridiculous word to represents a redundant phrase.”
“Survivor’s guilt. We call it survivor’s guilt.”
Rosethorn stared. Dedicate Cicelysong held out her hand; Rosethorn grasped it and felt the woman’s healing presence journey up her arm and neck into her mind. Images floated through her conscious mind: a ruined temple rebuilding itself; a dying emperor falling to broken knees; a caged bird released into the wild; green life overtaking a soldier-occupied village; Lark, Briar and Crane holding hands.
Cicelysong provided her with a pouch of herbs. That night, she slept.