[Sorrow] Imogen is left alone in the living room for five minutes. Her kitchen sink runs the entire time. The water drums its familiar pattern on the stainless bowl, interrupted now and then - stopped, filling hands, a glass, some leaking vessel - to sluice through in a great deluge.
Then Sorrow returns. Her hands and arms are clean, washed of the blood. She has scrubbed her face clean, too. Water is still drying on her cheeks and brow; her hairline is dark with wet, but her dark eyes are still clear. Now, her news delivered, the words spoken, the evenness of an ordinary night broken open by them, she feels ungainly in the sparse surroundings, the precise, spare orderliness of Imogen's home.
"There will be a rite," she continues, her voice clear in the room, soft but still too loud to her ears. Underneath, it sounds as if her vocal cords have been scoured with sandpaper - " - when we come back with the story." - until the blood runs. "I spoke with the Warder. He will allow you, Tristan, and Moira to attend the rite, or visit the grave, whichever you choose."
[Imogen M.] Outside, rain soaks the windowpane, streaking it, pattering against it. When the wind blows, the rain lashes, but more often than not it simply falls arrhythmically, a pit-patter.
While Kora cleanses herself of her fallen packmate's blood, Imogen does not remain in the living room. She gets up, her bare feet quiet on the floor, and disappears down the hallway toward the apartment's bedrooms. One door opens, then closes a few seconds later.
She stands in the silence of her bedroom, and stares briefly at the window. There are no lights on, and the rain casts irregular shadows, created by the light passing through. She watches the patterns without seeing, her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of her deliberate breaths. She does nothing and makes no sound.
She hears the water turn off, and turns away, pulling open the door and stepping back down the hallway. She returns to her living room as not long after Kora does.
Her hands smooth over the curve of her jean clad thigh, a meaningless gesture before she slides her fingers into the pockets of her jeans. They slide as deep as the first knuckle, her thumbs hooking into her belt loops. By this, her hands are still.
She watches the Fenrir woman when she speaks; she carries herself stiffly, tightly. Her posture is perfect, if rigid. Her jaw is clenched.
"What would the rite be like?"
[Sorrow] When Imogen returns, Sorrow is standing, facing the windows - not the walls, blank and spare, not the inevitable, merciless clock mounted to one of them. This room is lit from within; the shadows cast by the raindrops against the glass are far less distinct. The city lights visible through the panes are smeared as if by some painterly artiface into streaks of color, illuminated but, instinct, impersonal.
The question catches her unawares. Imogen can read the surprise in the creature's chased pale brows, rising over her dark eyes. Sorrow tips the pale crown of her head away from Imogen, lifts her jaw and chin toward the kinswoman - the animal cant with which she must be, by now, so familiar from these beasts in human skin - and studies her face. Her gaze drops to Imogen's hands, then flickers back to her eyes.
A spare moment passes; something pulls taut in Sorrow's jaw. "We will build a boat," she says, the rawness in her voice more clear now. " - or find one. For the rite, we will put his body in it, with trophies from his kills. Charms for his next life. Alcohol or - " the smile that flares here is a wintry one; little more than a spasm of pain. " - hot chocolate. Pictures of his son, if you have them. Reminders of his life in death. Then, we will build a pyre, and burn it all until it is ash. If the Mistress of the Rites deems it fitting, we will give it all to Maelstrom.
"While the pyre is burning, we will tell his story. The Skalds, and the Fenrir, and the Galliards. Anyone who wishes to speak, from dusk to dawn, so that the Aesir in Valhalla know who is coming to him. So that they know what they have gained, whom we have lost, and what he means to us."
[Imogen M.] Imogen's eyes are dry, almost unblinking as Kora speaks, a tension at her brow speaking of a frown the kinwoman does not quite permit. Her elbows are drawn tight to her body, her fingers rigid, where they are stuck in her jeans' pockets.
There is distance between them and Imogen does not move to close it. Nor does she move to make herself more at home or comfortable. She stands as she is, her feet cool on the hardwood floor.
She swallows reflexively - in that gesture her emotions breaching the surface then settling again.
A pause. "He built a catapult a few years ago. To throw snowballs at other Garou. It would be worth burning."
[Sorrow] "We'll burn it, Doc." The words are constrained. Sorrow is looking away again, out into patterned darkness, the striated lights smeared against the windows. Her arms are stiff at her side, held taught and straight at the elbow, defining the narrow line of her rigid frame, as if she had been constructed of right angles, right angles alone, nothing more.
"We'll burn it. Maybe - " here, she offers another strained smile. This one has some sort of terrible light behind it, though, like the promise of dawn on the darkest night of the year. " - someone has a snowball. In a freezer somewhere.
"Maybe the spirits of Fenris' brood will make it snow."
---
Sorrow's eyes are dry, but her face is wet. Baldr's brother took an oath
His hands he washed not nor his hair combed
Till Baldur's bane was borne to the pyre
- but Sorrow lives in this world. She has already washed her face and hands. There is something in her throat that does not belong there. It started the size of a pea, a bean, but it is a living thing, grief that is rage, rage that is grief, and like a seed it grows. She swallows hard against it.
"You know Tristan, right?" she looks back up, her face stark, white. "Will you tell him?"
[Imogen M.] Her mouth moves slightly as Sorrow suggests that Fenris' brood might make it snow. The expression stretches her mouth, but offers no light to her eyes.
"Perhaps."
She continues, she asks of Tristan. "I do," she says. "I will. He'll want to attend the rite, I imagine."
Her gaze moves, shifting toward the window, then back again.
"Does Rohl know? Silence."
[Sorrow] There is a moment, then, where Sorrow turns away from the window, looks back to Imogen. The greatest spasm of her grief is passed; her skin is white, and her eyes are dark, but clear and so direct. Imogen will tell Tristan. Sorrow lifts her chin in Imogen's direction. "Thank you."
Then, with the last question, Sorrow's gaze sharpens somehow. As if she were a blade passed over a whetstone, casts sparks. "He should have heard the howls. Or - " The cliath shakes her head, her loose hair rippling in the artificial light. It was raining in the spirit world, and she can still hear the song of it from her hair, smell the rain musk when she moves. "I don't know."
Her voice is stricken, raw. Then, "I will find him next. I will tell him."
[Imogen M.] She shakes her head slightly. "I can."
A flick of her gaze away, toward the clock, still measuring the seconds, inexorably. The tendon in her jaw shifts as she tightens it again. The tension in her jaw has been relentless, making the joint ache with pressure.
She turns back.
"Thank-you," she says, abruptly, deliberately. "For coming to tell me. You should get back t'yer pack."
[Sorrow] "I think the rite," this is her farewell. " - will be under the new moon."
Sorrow says nothing more.
She'll return, when they return, the battle that felled him under their skin, again and again and again. Inevitable. Invariable. Changed by their presence. Charged by their presence, and still: inevitable, already written into the records of the world.
She will return, later: with word of the rite. She will return, later. For now, she turns and finds her reflection in the stormcast windows of Imogen Slaughter's 9th storey condominium, stark white against the painted darkness. She turns, and finds her reflection - steps through -
- and is gone.
Then Sorrow returns. Her hands and arms are clean, washed of the blood. She has scrubbed her face clean, too. Water is still drying on her cheeks and brow; her hairline is dark with wet, but her dark eyes are still clear. Now, her news delivered, the words spoken, the evenness of an ordinary night broken open by them, she feels ungainly in the sparse surroundings, the precise, spare orderliness of Imogen's home.
"There will be a rite," she continues, her voice clear in the room, soft but still too loud to her ears. Underneath, it sounds as if her vocal cords have been scoured with sandpaper - " - when we come back with the story." - until the blood runs. "I spoke with the Warder. He will allow you, Tristan, and Moira to attend the rite, or visit the grave, whichever you choose."
[Imogen M.] Outside, rain soaks the windowpane, streaking it, pattering against it. When the wind blows, the rain lashes, but more often than not it simply falls arrhythmically, a pit-patter.
While Kora cleanses herself of her fallen packmate's blood, Imogen does not remain in the living room. She gets up, her bare feet quiet on the floor, and disappears down the hallway toward the apartment's bedrooms. One door opens, then closes a few seconds later.
She stands in the silence of her bedroom, and stares briefly at the window. There are no lights on, and the rain casts irregular shadows, created by the light passing through. She watches the patterns without seeing, her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of her deliberate breaths. She does nothing and makes no sound.
She hears the water turn off, and turns away, pulling open the door and stepping back down the hallway. She returns to her living room as not long after Kora does.
Her hands smooth over the curve of her jean clad thigh, a meaningless gesture before she slides her fingers into the pockets of her jeans. They slide as deep as the first knuckle, her thumbs hooking into her belt loops. By this, her hands are still.
She watches the Fenrir woman when she speaks; she carries herself stiffly, tightly. Her posture is perfect, if rigid. Her jaw is clenched.
"What would the rite be like?"
[Sorrow] When Imogen returns, Sorrow is standing, facing the windows - not the walls, blank and spare, not the inevitable, merciless clock mounted to one of them. This room is lit from within; the shadows cast by the raindrops against the glass are far less distinct. The city lights visible through the panes are smeared as if by some painterly artiface into streaks of color, illuminated but, instinct, impersonal.
The question catches her unawares. Imogen can read the surprise in the creature's chased pale brows, rising over her dark eyes. Sorrow tips the pale crown of her head away from Imogen, lifts her jaw and chin toward the kinswoman - the animal cant with which she must be, by now, so familiar from these beasts in human skin - and studies her face. Her gaze drops to Imogen's hands, then flickers back to her eyes.
A spare moment passes; something pulls taut in Sorrow's jaw. "We will build a boat," she says, the rawness in her voice more clear now. " - or find one. For the rite, we will put his body in it, with trophies from his kills. Charms for his next life. Alcohol or - " the smile that flares here is a wintry one; little more than a spasm of pain. " - hot chocolate. Pictures of his son, if you have them. Reminders of his life in death. Then, we will build a pyre, and burn it all until it is ash. If the Mistress of the Rites deems it fitting, we will give it all to Maelstrom.
"While the pyre is burning, we will tell his story. The Skalds, and the Fenrir, and the Galliards. Anyone who wishes to speak, from dusk to dawn, so that the Aesir in Valhalla know who is coming to him. So that they know what they have gained, whom we have lost, and what he means to us."
[Imogen M.] Imogen's eyes are dry, almost unblinking as Kora speaks, a tension at her brow speaking of a frown the kinwoman does not quite permit. Her elbows are drawn tight to her body, her fingers rigid, where they are stuck in her jeans' pockets.
There is distance between them and Imogen does not move to close it. Nor does she move to make herself more at home or comfortable. She stands as she is, her feet cool on the hardwood floor.
She swallows reflexively - in that gesture her emotions breaching the surface then settling again.
A pause. "He built a catapult a few years ago. To throw snowballs at other Garou. It would be worth burning."
[Sorrow] "We'll burn it, Doc." The words are constrained. Sorrow is looking away again, out into patterned darkness, the striated lights smeared against the windows. Her arms are stiff at her side, held taught and straight at the elbow, defining the narrow line of her rigid frame, as if she had been constructed of right angles, right angles alone, nothing more.
"We'll burn it. Maybe - " here, she offers another strained smile. This one has some sort of terrible light behind it, though, like the promise of dawn on the darkest night of the year. " - someone has a snowball. In a freezer somewhere.
"Maybe the spirits of Fenris' brood will make it snow."
---
Sorrow's eyes are dry, but her face is wet. Baldr's brother took an oath
His hands he washed not nor his hair combed
Till Baldur's bane was borne to the pyre
- but Sorrow lives in this world. She has already washed her face and hands. There is something in her throat that does not belong there. It started the size of a pea, a bean, but it is a living thing, grief that is rage, rage that is grief, and like a seed it grows. She swallows hard against it.
"You know Tristan, right?" she looks back up, her face stark, white. "Will you tell him?"
[Imogen M.] Her mouth moves slightly as Sorrow suggests that Fenris' brood might make it snow. The expression stretches her mouth, but offers no light to her eyes.
"Perhaps."
She continues, she asks of Tristan. "I do," she says. "I will. He'll want to attend the rite, I imagine."
Her gaze moves, shifting toward the window, then back again.
"Does Rohl know? Silence."
[Sorrow] There is a moment, then, where Sorrow turns away from the window, looks back to Imogen. The greatest spasm of her grief is passed; her skin is white, and her eyes are dark, but clear and so direct. Imogen will tell Tristan. Sorrow lifts her chin in Imogen's direction. "Thank you."
Then, with the last question, Sorrow's gaze sharpens somehow. As if she were a blade passed over a whetstone, casts sparks. "He should have heard the howls. Or - " The cliath shakes her head, her loose hair rippling in the artificial light. It was raining in the spirit world, and she can still hear the song of it from her hair, smell the rain musk when she moves. "I don't know."
Her voice is stricken, raw. Then, "I will find him next. I will tell him."
[Imogen M.] She shakes her head slightly. "I can."
A flick of her gaze away, toward the clock, still measuring the seconds, inexorably. The tendon in her jaw shifts as she tightens it again. The tension in her jaw has been relentless, making the joint ache with pressure.
She turns back.
"Thank-you," she says, abruptly, deliberately. "For coming to tell me. You should get back t'yer pack."
[Sorrow] "I think the rite," this is her farewell. " - will be under the new moon."
Sorrow says nothing more.
She'll return, when they return, the battle that felled him under their skin, again and again and again. Inevitable. Invariable. Changed by their presence. Charged by their presence, and still: inevitable, already written into the records of the world.
She will return, later: with word of the rite. She will return, later. For now, she turns and finds her reflection in the stormcast windows of Imogen Slaughter's 9th storey condominium, stark white against the painted darkness. She turns, and finds her reflection - steps through -
- and is gone.
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