eight, anyone; - Printable Version

what is dead may never die;

Perhaps it's because she stands outside of death. Perhaps it's because in her world, the stars are hollow and memory is just a memory. Perhaps it's because she has no sense of her own mortality that she simply cannot place his. But for whatever reason, not only does she not fear him (or his appearance), she actually enjoys his company.

Is he alive? He asks, and a tiny smile plays on her lips. He shouldn't be, she knows enough to know that. But he also appears to be, at least in the same way that all impossible things are alive: in defiance of what they should be, in defiance of anything and everything. Flying in the face of reason, flying in the face of reality, flying in the face of the natural order. And perhaps this is why she values him, because she too flies in the face of what should be, and in even more ways than he knows. He is speaking again and she tilts her head, listening. Yes, he is, he decides, and she watches him with her icy eyes.

She doesn't move when he approaches. As he closes the distance, she simply continues to watch him, her face impassive. She knows what happens when anything touches her. She didn't know at first, at the very beginning, but she's learned. In her own way, Aletheia is every bit as unnatural as Infection, although she doesn't look it. She was not born, at least not in the traditional way. She simply appeared one winter's day, grown, and shocked to discover what cold was. She had parents, but she did not remember them. Her only ties were four certainties: her name, Aletheia, her home, the Valley, her father, Carnage, her mother, Librette.

And, perhaps as a consequence of some part of whatever strange process had landed her so unceremoniously in the meadow or perhaps as a consequence of something else entirely, she sucks the life from the world around her.

Her body does it gently, tenderly, and automatically. It is a power that can weaken, but never a power than can kill. It is a power she cannot control; perhaps it is even more like an allergy, as though the world is allergic to her, as though she just doesn't fit here, and the world simply cannot take it.

But what will happen, then, when two negatives touch? When two things that shouldn't exist…not only do exist, but find each other and come together? What does he feel, when her body tries to suck his life from his lips, like a strange reversed lover's kiss?

She feels nothing, but that's not unusual. To her, stealing life is as natural as breathing. She still does it, taking from the grass, from the creatures around them, even though there is no life to take from Infection.

She doesn't think to move, to jump away when Thorrun joins them. Perhaps it is strange to her half sister (for Aletheia has no such qualms about accepting Thorrun as those Thorrun has about her) to see such a strange looking stallion touching her as he is. But Aletheia has no time to consider strangeness. She is comfortable here, and so she is not moving. Her icy eyes swing over to Thorrun as the girl talks.

Aletheia notes, absentmindedly, that her half-sister seems terribly afraid of something.

"I didn't catch your name either." she speaks directly after Thorrun, her steady, unaffected voice calm despite the incredible situation. She has made no move to stop the stallion from touching her. The trail of drool does not matter to her. A maggot falls onto her back, and a hint of its life seeps into her before it bounces all the way to the ground. A smile plays on her icy lips; her voice is almost playful as she turns his question back on him. "Who are you?"

but rises again

Aletheia

harder and stronger