Vinegar Bees
flowers & teeth.
Deep resentment boiled within Maylee at the chiding, condescending nature of Razial's voice, and the resentment only stacked when he performed a strange gesture that sapped some of the pain from her body like a cloth soaking up blood.
Not at that level? But what she was feeling... it was real. Was he implying she was too delicate, too weak to endure the pain? Panting, she glared up at him through clumps of hair sticking to her face with sweat. I can handle it. I can. But the tremors that had seized her body, the faintness that pulsed at the corners of her vision, were difficult to ignore, no matter how she tried. It was clear that a fatigue, a weakness had swept her body, and shame seethed in her veins at the familiar reminder that she wasn't strong enough.
Maylee watched with burning, focused eyes as Razial transformed the pain he had extracted from her into a little ball of energy and then into a fine red powder. A memory lit up in her mind—she had had to make use of magic powder, a precious and expensive resource, on some of her past hunts. Tossing a handful of white powder that burst into a dazzling flash of light. Hurriedly downing a green, bitter-tasting powder that staunched the bleeding in her wounds. She had known, in some way, that magic could be used as such, but she had never seen it turned to powder before her eyes as she did now.
Her posture was stiff and reluctant, but she held out her hand when prompted by Razial and watched him ingest the powder first to keep vigilant for any ill effects. When the odd little light-show in his mouth had abated, he seemed unperturbed, and so Maylee took in a breath to steel herself and then funneled the powder into her mouth.
The effect was immediate; as a child, she had sometimes eaten that sort of candy that danced and popped and sizzled on her tongue, and it felt now as if she had crammed in as many of those sour little rocks as her mouth could fit. Shockwaves spread through the roof of her mouth and up throughout her skull, and it momentarily felt as if her brain itself were vibrating, thrusting itself against the walls of its cage. When the effect had died down and she could again see straight, Maylee found that the trembling fatigue had left her body.
She rose from her knees to her feet, clenching her fists in a defiant stance aimed at Razial. "Why are you telling me to hold back?" she asked, sharp and impatient. "I already told you—I don't care if it's difficult. I don't care if it hurts. I can handle pain!"
Her teeth scraped together in frustration, but Maylee drew out a breath and forced herself to focus on the target Razial had pointed out. If he was underestimating her so, then she simply had to prove herself capable.
Eyes locked on the target, Maylee let a few steady breaths in and out, and then she allowed her eyes to drift shut. Holding her palms out in front of her, she imagined the target changing shape as Razial had directed—it pinched and grew to a tall, humanoid form, dark hair spilling over wide, feral eyes, hands hooked into claws where they spread at his sides. Blood dribbled from his chin, the tips of his fingers; it splotched the front of his shirt and soaked his once-white socks.
The monster she had sworn to destroy. That was why she had started on this path, why she had sought to fill herself with that same curse that had afflicted that werewolf, wasn't it? She had failed as a daughter, and so she had made herself a weapon instead.
I'll never, ever forgive you.
And yet, as Maylee loosed all of the grief and anger and hunger for vengeance within her with a shout, an image flashed through her mind of that same face, that same head of dark hair, those same golden-brown eyes fixed on her with a gentle, aching fondness.
When she opened her eyes, Maylee saw that the blaze of dark magic had glanced off the corner of the target, blackening it but leaving the center completely untouched. Her cheeks flushed in shame—was Razial right? Was she really at such a low level...?
No. Maylee shook her head and snapped her eyes shut again, furrowing her brow and drawing up an image of her mother to stand in front of the target. After all, what that uncanny vision of herself had said—that all of this had started with her—was right, wasn't it? Yan Song had set her up for failure from the outset, breaking her straight from the womb and then urging her to figure out how to repair her own splintered ribs.
Instead of healing, they had poked into her heart, and she had bled and bled and bled, and her mother had seen the mess and condemned it as weakness.
With another fervent shout, Maylee clenched her extended palms into fists and felt the stinging release of magic. Heart racing hopefully, she opened her eyes, only to see that the magic had diffused sloppily across the surface of the target. Shallow, unfocused damage.
The frustration within her was building, tangling with threads of despair and shame. Was this all she was doomed to be, forever chasing a goal she would never reach, forever falling on her knees before she managed to breach the finish line?
She had climbed higher than she had ever managed before, but again the Sisyphean boulder cracked to pieces, launching her back down the mountain with the weight of her failure.
Her eyes squeezed shut again, and Maylee pressed her fists over her eyes, trying to collect her shaky breath in her chest and force back the tears (of course) that pricked at the back of her eyes. Again the crying little girl. Again the weakling, the rabbit in a den of wolves.
Maylee thrust her palms out in front of her again, her eyes remaining shut, and she imagined pressing against a pane of glass, linking fingers with another girl on the opposite side. The girl looked much like her, but her hair was longer, tucked into a pair of braids more befitting a child than a warrior, and she was stuffed into an over-sized green coat that swallowed her. Three identical lines, thin slash marks from the claws of an animal, decorated her reddened cheek.
Her hands pressed against the imaginary glass curled back into fists, and every inch of Maylee trembled with the force of her anger at this girl who was not enough, who would never be enough.
Then she let it all out with a shout woven from a lifetime of pent-up resentment, and the blast that left her body sent her skidding back in recoil. When she opened her eyes, she saw a blackened, deep pinprick had lanced through the target, so concentrated that it had eaten its way through to the other side.
Exactly on the center.
Not at that level? But what she was feeling... it was real. Was he implying she was too delicate, too weak to endure the pain? Panting, she glared up at him through clumps of hair sticking to her face with sweat. I can handle it. I can. But the tremors that had seized her body, the faintness that pulsed at the corners of her vision, were difficult to ignore, no matter how she tried. It was clear that a fatigue, a weakness had swept her body, and shame seethed in her veins at the familiar reminder that she wasn't strong enough.
Maylee watched with burning, focused eyes as Razial transformed the pain he had extracted from her into a little ball of energy and then into a fine red powder. A memory lit up in her mind—she had had to make use of magic powder, a precious and expensive resource, on some of her past hunts. Tossing a handful of white powder that burst into a dazzling flash of light. Hurriedly downing a green, bitter-tasting powder that staunched the bleeding in her wounds. She had known, in some way, that magic could be used as such, but she had never seen it turned to powder before her eyes as she did now.
Her posture was stiff and reluctant, but she held out her hand when prompted by Razial and watched him ingest the powder first to keep vigilant for any ill effects. When the odd little light-show in his mouth had abated, he seemed unperturbed, and so Maylee took in a breath to steel herself and then funneled the powder into her mouth.
The effect was immediate; as a child, she had sometimes eaten that sort of candy that danced and popped and sizzled on her tongue, and it felt now as if she had crammed in as many of those sour little rocks as her mouth could fit. Shockwaves spread through the roof of her mouth and up throughout her skull, and it momentarily felt as if her brain itself were vibrating, thrusting itself against the walls of its cage. When the effect had died down and she could again see straight, Maylee found that the trembling fatigue had left her body.
She rose from her knees to her feet, clenching her fists in a defiant stance aimed at Razial. "Why are you telling me to hold back?" she asked, sharp and impatient. "I already told you—I don't care if it's difficult. I don't care if it hurts. I can handle pain!"
Her teeth scraped together in frustration, but Maylee drew out a breath and forced herself to focus on the target Razial had pointed out. If he was underestimating her so, then she simply had to prove herself capable.
Eyes locked on the target, Maylee let a few steady breaths in and out, and then she allowed her eyes to drift shut. Holding her palms out in front of her, she imagined the target changing shape as Razial had directed—it pinched and grew to a tall, humanoid form, dark hair spilling over wide, feral eyes, hands hooked into claws where they spread at his sides. Blood dribbled from his chin, the tips of his fingers; it splotched the front of his shirt and soaked his once-white socks.
The monster she had sworn to destroy. That was why she had started on this path, why she had sought to fill herself with that same curse that had afflicted that werewolf, wasn't it? She had failed as a daughter, and so she had made herself a weapon instead.
I'll never, ever forgive you.
And yet, as Maylee loosed all of the grief and anger and hunger for vengeance within her with a shout, an image flashed through her mind of that same face, that same head of dark hair, those same golden-brown eyes fixed on her with a gentle, aching fondness.
When she opened her eyes, Maylee saw that the blaze of dark magic had glanced off the corner of the target, blackening it but leaving the center completely untouched. Her cheeks flushed in shame—was Razial right? Was she really at such a low level...?
No. Maylee shook her head and snapped her eyes shut again, furrowing her brow and drawing up an image of her mother to stand in front of the target. After all, what that uncanny vision of herself had said—that all of this had started with her—was right, wasn't it? Yan Song had set her up for failure from the outset, breaking her straight from the womb and then urging her to figure out how to repair her own splintered ribs.
Instead of healing, they had poked into her heart, and she had bled and bled and bled, and her mother had seen the mess and condemned it as weakness.
With another fervent shout, Maylee clenched her extended palms into fists and felt the stinging release of magic. Heart racing hopefully, she opened her eyes, only to see that the magic had diffused sloppily across the surface of the target. Shallow, unfocused damage.
The frustration within her was building, tangling with threads of despair and shame. Was this all she was doomed to be, forever chasing a goal she would never reach, forever falling on her knees before she managed to breach the finish line?
She had climbed higher than she had ever managed before, but again the Sisyphean boulder cracked to pieces, launching her back down the mountain with the weight of her failure.
Her eyes squeezed shut again, and Maylee pressed her fists over her eyes, trying to collect her shaky breath in her chest and force back the tears (of course) that pricked at the back of her eyes. Again the crying little girl. Again the weakling, the rabbit in a den of wolves.
Maylee thrust her palms out in front of her again, her eyes remaining shut, and she imagined pressing against a pane of glass, linking fingers with another girl on the opposite side. The girl looked much like her, but her hair was longer, tucked into a pair of braids more befitting a child than a warrior, and she was stuffed into an over-sized green coat that swallowed her. Three identical lines, thin slash marks from the claws of an animal, decorated her reddened cheek.
Her hands pressed against the imaginary glass curled back into fists, and every inch of Maylee trembled with the force of her anger at this girl who was not enough, who would never be enough.
Then she let it all out with a shout woven from a lifetime of pent-up resentment, and the blast that left her body sent her skidding back in recoil. When she opened her eyes, she saw a blackened, deep pinprick had lanced through the target, so concentrated that it had eaten its way through to the other side.
Exactly on the center.
( Tags:
Out Of Words
)
maylee song.
hunter | werewolf
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