How he presses back against the chair, snarling like a caged animal. How he won't look away from her. How his eyes look half-wild.
You aren't the first, he says. What was done to him, to turn him this way? (Oh, how he eased with her touch, as though succumbing to some half-remembered dream. He wasn't always like this.)
She knows what she would do with a beaten dog: day by day, leave scraps for it. Day by day, return, coming nearer until she's certain it won't bite.
But dogs can exist on their own, and people can't. Give Treavor space, and he'll continue to sink ever deeper into this wretchedness, because that is what people do. (She knows. She has been given so much space.)
He isn't an animal.
Perhaps he needs reminding.
And if he bites? Well, who better to receive that wound than Katrina, who feels so little? Whose skin could be a shell, and whose heart is already so shattered that one more wound is nothing - just another pain, another shout in a cacophony. It's kind, and generous, and merciful, to accept the pain if it means she soothes him.
Someone should have given him that much long ago, before he turned this way. (Someone should have given her that much long ago. She doesn't let herself think of that.)
One last effort, perhaps. After that...well. She can summon his manservant; there, a trusted face, and he'll be led off to sleep. But just this. Once more.
So, she shushes softly, and a gentle 'no' follows, no, no one is mocking, no, this isn't what he thinks, and her touch is against his cheek once more. Her voice is scarcely a whisper, comforting, earnest, and careful. ]
I won't mock you. You'll see, in time; I will never mock you. I will always be kind. I will. I swear it.
[ Oh, 'always' and 'never'; and what of when he goes? Back to Manhattan, or simply away - when his presence is no longer needed?
no subject
How he presses back against the chair, snarling like a caged animal. How he won't look away from her. How his eyes look half-wild.
You aren't the first, he says. What was done to him, to turn him this way? (Oh, how he eased with her touch, as though succumbing to some half-remembered dream. He wasn't always like this.)
She knows what she would do with a beaten dog: day by day, leave scraps for it. Day by day, return, coming nearer until she's certain it won't bite.
But dogs can exist on their own, and people can't. Give Treavor space, and he'll continue to sink ever deeper into this wretchedness, because that is what people do. (She knows. She has been given so much space.)
He isn't an animal.
Perhaps he needs reminding.
And if he bites? Well, who better to receive that wound than Katrina, who feels so little? Whose skin could be a shell, and whose heart is already so shattered that one more wound is nothing - just another pain, another shout in a cacophony. It's kind, and generous, and merciful, to accept the pain if it means she soothes him.
Someone should have given him that much long ago, before he turned this way. (Someone should have given her that much long ago. She doesn't let herself think of that.)
One last effort, perhaps. After that...well. She can summon his manservant; there, a trusted face, and he'll be led off to sleep. But just this. Once more.
So, she shushes softly, and a gentle 'no' follows, no, no one is mocking, no, this isn't what he thinks, and her touch is against his cheek once more. Her voice is scarcely a whisper, comforting, earnest, and careful. ]
I won't mock you. You'll see, in time; I will never mock you. I will always be kind. I will. I swear it.
[ Oh, 'always' and 'never'; and what of when he goes? Back to Manhattan, or simply away - when his presence is no longer needed?
Well.
Don't they all go?
She pushes these wretched thoughts aside. ]
Please. Treavor, please. It's all right.