Nothing could be heard but the deep breathing and the angry panting in the silence between the two, as the old woman's face fell. Her mouth untwisted, her lips once more soft, not arranged in a nasty snarl, her eyes no longer sharp like two pinprick needles. Her whole face sagged, the hollows beneath her eyes empty, and her body curled in on itself, like a beaten dog, like Sodalis was once upon a time.
It should have been a victory, but lately every day felt like a defeat. Cadicus looked down at the woman, the old, sick woman, and felt an absolute disgust rise within him. To make his own hollowness ache less, he had picked on such a woman? A woman who could not defend herself, who had not even good health to her name. No wonder Cypress could not stand the sight of his eyes: Cadicus, the Ethaefal who gleamed in the Sun, was filled with nothing but shadows and cobwebs.
"It is I who should be sorry." His words were sharp, direct, stiff. Perhaps the apology would sound to be insincere, but if only Philomena could rip his chest apart and see the blood in his heart, and the way the ventricles held tight, then she would know he was sincere. "The girls at Loveless would be lucky to have you." A strange way to apologise, but the greatest woman he had ever known was a whore: that was his benchmark of a decent woman, and Philomena Lefting deserved to be ranked among them.
With a bow, a bow of respect that Cadicus could never, never repeat, nor tell his friends that he did so, he smiled bitterly at the old woman, and turned to leave. She might die today. She might die tonight, alone. And he had made her last day miserable.
It should have been a victory, but lately every day felt like a defeat. Cadicus looked down at the woman, the old, sick woman, and felt an absolute disgust rise within him. To make his own hollowness ache less, he had picked on such a woman? A woman who could not defend herself, who had not even good health to her name. No wonder Cypress could not stand the sight of his eyes: Cadicus, the Ethaefal who gleamed in the Sun, was filled with nothing but shadows and cobwebs.
"It is I who should be sorry." His words were sharp, direct, stiff. Perhaps the apology would sound to be insincere, but if only Philomena could rip his chest apart and see the blood in his heart, and the way the ventricles held tight, then she would know he was sincere. "The girls at Loveless would be lucky to have you." A strange way to apologise, but the greatest woman he had ever known was a whore: that was his benchmark of a decent woman, and Philomena Lefting deserved to be ranked among them.
With a bow, a bow of respect that Cadicus could never, never repeat, nor tell his friends that he did so, he smiled bitterly at the old woman, and turned to leave. She might die today. She might die tonight, alone. And he had made her last day miserable.
