Post by Charlotte on Jul 18, 2005 9:15:16 GMT -5
THEED PALACE, NABOO
The Winter Within
In the end, the five murders hadn't taken very long. They had been like a whipcrack. Sadhric felt like they had just glanced off of the outer edges of him, stinging his skin but leaving him whole.
When it had been all over, when he'd managed to snare a few minutes to himself, he'd been distantly appalled at his response to the entire thing. Especially to the last girl. To Ele. How could he have stood there like that, eyes forcibly locked on her, and not been completely consumed by her agony, her death? He'd been thinking about--he couldn't remember what he'd been thinking about. But the fact that he'd been thinking, and not seeing....
And even now, his assessment was academic. Ice, years in the making, had rained down to protect him from what Phobos had done. In other times, in other ways, he'd seen things like this before. You might say he had years of practice.
But those other times, and other ways, weren't really like this.
Phobos had enjoyed every second of this. Even in failure, even in rage, his absolute glee had radiated like a blazing light.
And it was observations like that which had caught Sadhric's attention, it seemed. Insignificant, superficial observations. Superficial games. --But they were all he would allow himself to react to, with so many eyes on him, weighing him with the skill of predators.
That was the secret of the ice.
All of the parts of him that might be seen, all reactions and thoughts that could be measured--those were in the grip of winter. Only rarely did something real burst through the cracks--though it was becoming less rare, or had been becoming less rare.
It was the eyes--real or imagined--that kept such things in check.
In the few minutes he'd had alone, he'd been wondering what he looked like to Mekhetu just then. Did he look broken? Furious? Horrified? Or--more likely--only vaguely human, responding sluggishly to a scene that could have ripped the heart out of others? He wondered what she would report to Phobos, how she would interpret what she saw and heard. He wondered how that would effect the next session, how Phobos might or might not adjust in response--
Clinical. Analytical. Dry-eyed.
Everything else was hidden too deep to touch.
And still, for a man whose focus had not been on the people being slaughtered in front of him, he remembered every detail of the scene with unremitting clarity. He could have zeroed in on any out of place fiber on Phobos' clothing, any twitch of the boy's eye, any pitch in the father's screams.
He'd slept, much later. The scene had stayed with him, attacking him in nightmare.
He'd been shaken awake by one of the new doomed ones. Vorrin, he thought the woman's name was--they'd been introduced. Anadali. She knew who he was, too--and would have, even if Phobos hadn't said his name. His face had apparently been splashed across the Holonet. Terrorist. Killer.
Looking up at her, though, as she demanded answers from him, explanations, a thought came to him like a clear note in an off-key chorus. He must have been more distraught before than he'd known or appeared, because it was so simple, so possible, that only an idiot wouldn't see it.
He wasn't really listening to her for a moment.
She was Mekhetu. They were all Mekhetu.
Relief surprised him.
Mekhetu. Of course!
He let himself be taken by the idea. It freed him from guilt. He could be diamondine.
But he knew in his heart that Phobos would not have enjoyed himself so much if his victims had not been real.
The Winter Within
In the end, the five murders hadn't taken very long. They had been like a whipcrack. Sadhric felt like they had just glanced off of the outer edges of him, stinging his skin but leaving him whole.
When it had been all over, when he'd managed to snare a few minutes to himself, he'd been distantly appalled at his response to the entire thing. Especially to the last girl. To Ele. How could he have stood there like that, eyes forcibly locked on her, and not been completely consumed by her agony, her death? He'd been thinking about--he couldn't remember what he'd been thinking about. But the fact that he'd been thinking, and not seeing....
And even now, his assessment was academic. Ice, years in the making, had rained down to protect him from what Phobos had done. In other times, in other ways, he'd seen things like this before. You might say he had years of practice.
But those other times, and other ways, weren't really like this.
Phobos had enjoyed every second of this. Even in failure, even in rage, his absolute glee had radiated like a blazing light.
And it was observations like that which had caught Sadhric's attention, it seemed. Insignificant, superficial observations. Superficial games. --But they were all he would allow himself to react to, with so many eyes on him, weighing him with the skill of predators.
That was the secret of the ice.
All of the parts of him that might be seen, all reactions and thoughts that could be measured--those were in the grip of winter. Only rarely did something real burst through the cracks--though it was becoming less rare, or had been becoming less rare.
It was the eyes--real or imagined--that kept such things in check.
In the few minutes he'd had alone, he'd been wondering what he looked like to Mekhetu just then. Did he look broken? Furious? Horrified? Or--more likely--only vaguely human, responding sluggishly to a scene that could have ripped the heart out of others? He wondered what she would report to Phobos, how she would interpret what she saw and heard. He wondered how that would effect the next session, how Phobos might or might not adjust in response--
Clinical. Analytical. Dry-eyed.
Everything else was hidden too deep to touch.
And still, for a man whose focus had not been on the people being slaughtered in front of him, he remembered every detail of the scene with unremitting clarity. He could have zeroed in on any out of place fiber on Phobos' clothing, any twitch of the boy's eye, any pitch in the father's screams.
He'd slept, much later. The scene had stayed with him, attacking him in nightmare.
He'd been shaken awake by one of the new doomed ones. Vorrin, he thought the woman's name was--they'd been introduced. Anadali. She knew who he was, too--and would have, even if Phobos hadn't said his name. His face had apparently been splashed across the Holonet. Terrorist. Killer.
Looking up at her, though, as she demanded answers from him, explanations, a thought came to him like a clear note in an off-key chorus. He must have been more distraught before than he'd known or appeared, because it was so simple, so possible, that only an idiot wouldn't see it.
He wasn't really listening to her for a moment.
She was Mekhetu. They were all Mekhetu.
Relief surprised him.
Mekhetu. Of course!
He let himself be taken by the idea. It freed him from guilt. He could be diamondine.
But he knew in his heart that Phobos would not have enjoyed himself so much if his victims had not been real.