05-08-2023, 10:10 PM
The thing does not know what it means to matter and she certainly does not know what it means to have mattered. (Perhaps there is some piece of horse-flesh that comprises her that had once belonged to someone who had mattered, someone who might have ventured to the edge of something and looked out into all the nothingness and remembered what it had been like to matter. But this thing dragged up from hell and cobbled together by magic has absolutely no notion of what it might mean to have any relevance at all.)
It watches, though, intrigued by the way he stares, quiet. By the way he seems to come back to life as the wind stirs and he turns back to face her. She blinks, bleeding, uncomprehending. She glances past him to all that kingdom stretching out through the valley and wonders what it means to have meant anything at all to a place.
“You miss it,” the thing observes. “You miss mattering,” it adds and tilts its ugly head, studying the face, the far-away gaze. She is a thing, certainly, and there are so many things she does not understand about what it means to be alive, but she is not stupid.
He touches the thing without recoiling and his mouth comes away stained by its blood. (Whose blood is it? Had the Creator had to take it from someplace else? Is it the Creator’s blood or someone else’s entirely?) It is the first time she has left her mark on anyone else and there is some sharp thrill that snakes its way through her gut at the sight of it there.
He considers the thing and it goes on staring back at him. Red, he says, and the thing grins something grotesque, pleased. Is this what it means to matter? It is not her name, not even close, but what a wonder it is to be called anything at all. It glances down at all that blood and shifts its slight weight. There is nothing to be done about it, the thing understands, you cannot stop the bleeding of something that’s not meant to bleed in the first place.
The focus shifts back to his face at his question and it grins another bloody grin. “The reaper,” it answers plainly. “He did not create me to be kept.”
It watches, though, intrigued by the way he stares, quiet. By the way he seems to come back to life as the wind stirs and he turns back to face her. She blinks, bleeding, uncomprehending. She glances past him to all that kingdom stretching out through the valley and wonders what it means to have meant anything at all to a place.
“You miss it,” the thing observes. “You miss mattering,” it adds and tilts its ugly head, studying the face, the far-away gaze. She is a thing, certainly, and there are so many things she does not understand about what it means to be alive, but she is not stupid.
He touches the thing without recoiling and his mouth comes away stained by its blood. (Whose blood is it? Had the Creator had to take it from someplace else? Is it the Creator’s blood or someone else’s entirely?) It is the first time she has left her mark on anyone else and there is some sharp thrill that snakes its way through her gut at the sight of it there.
He considers the thing and it goes on staring back at him. Red, he says, and the thing grins something grotesque, pleased. Is this what it means to matter? It is not her name, not even close, but what a wonder it is to be called anything at all. It glances down at all that blood and shifts its slight weight. There is nothing to be done about it, the thing understands, you cannot stop the bleeding of something that’s not meant to bleed in the first place.
The focus shifts back to his face at his question and it grins another bloody grin. “The reaper,” it answers plainly. “He did not create me to be kept.”
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Set