[ Wait, his sometime brother says, and Augustine —
— waits, wrist marked by the indentation of teeth that could just as easily rend and maim as hold.
He is angry; furious; heartbroken; he wants to cry, to sob, to rage and give vent to his temper in a way he hasn't in centuries, in millennia, and he waits anyway, because out of everything Illarion is suffering it's such a small thing to give, to wait, no matter how stupid it is, no matter how hard it is to smother the half-born noise of protest that rises in his throat when his shirt is escaped —
He still isn't expecting this.
At first he fears forgiveness; he fears apology — two things the shrike shouldn't, certainly not right now, if ever — he isn't expecting the taste of jealousy on his tongue, at Vanya.
He isn't expecting the sharp sting of rebuke, hidden around the edges of the vast space occupied by a creature that was never human, and only passingly humanoid; but how does it not make sense, in some way, given that humankind has always assumed the "fourth dimension" to be time, that he knows somehow the rebuke to him exists in the memory of words spoken by someone he never truly met, no matter how well he has learned Dusya's mind through his words?
He waits, ashamed, as Illarion offers John an olive branch that he himself did not, could not — and he raises no objection, as a shadow of his soul peels away in a long coil, drifting like smoke across the room to rest in a curve embracing John's shoulders. ]
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sometimebrother says, and Augustine —— waits, wrist marked by the indentation of teeth that could just as easily rend and maim as hold.
He is angry; furious; heartbroken; he wants to cry, to sob, to rage and give vent to his temper in a way he hasn't in centuries, in millennia, and he waits anyway, because out of everything Illarion is suffering it's such a small thing to give, to wait, no matter how stupid it is, no matter how hard it is to smother the half-born noise of protest that rises in his throat when his shirt is escaped —
He still isn't expecting this.
At first he fears forgiveness; he fears apology — two things the shrike shouldn't, certainly not right now, if ever — he isn't expecting the taste of jealousy on his tongue, at Vanya.
He isn't expecting the sharp sting of rebuke, hidden around the edges of the vast space occupied by a creature that was never human, and only passingly humanoid; but how does it not make sense, in some way, given that humankind has always assumed the "fourth dimension" to be time, that he knows somehow the rebuke to him exists in the memory of words spoken by someone he never truly met, no matter how well he has learned Dusya's mind through his words?
He waits, ashamed, as Illarion offers John an olive branch that he himself did not, could not — and he raises no objection, as a shadow of his soul peels away in a long coil, drifting like smoke across the room to rest in a curve embracing John's shoulders. ]