Ara's mind reeled. She had hoped, she had worked, to perhaps be acceptable, to not be killed, to be used, and then set on her way - but now, the woman wanted nothing. Ara stared, trying to read between what she had heard, watching with a sort of frustrated desperation the woman's hands, to see if their movement could give any clues to meaning - the habitual fallback of a Pavi-speaker, confused by the emotion of a situation. The woman wanted something. She wanted something. Hide? She wanted Ara to hide? From what? From Vanator? He would be angry at her? Or at the Zith? Was she to keep the Zith safe by not telling? No, because then, why would the creature have stopped her in the first place?
And she stared hard at the woman, her child-like face, digging into her eyes, looking. Fear? Fear for Ara? Her hand, her dark, taloned hand, was so gentle on Ara's hair, and her queer, dark-light shadow-hued face was intent. Frightened for her, maybe? Why?
That hand, it touched too soft, and Ara fell into the threats she'd heard, pain, and torture, and rape. A sick feeling over took her belly, and she tried hard to push those thoughts back away - why would this woman threaten her and then...
No.
No, no, she must have misunderstood. She must have mistook the direction. The woman was kind now, was gentle even. She was frightened for ARa's safety. Those threats... no, they meant something else. Her terror coiled itself so tightly, she could wrap it in its own cords, and tuck it away, and something worse crawled up, not the sharp singularity of terror, but the ache and scourge of horror, crawling, slowly into her awareness.
She groped, clumsily for words, her eyes were growing glassy with unshed tears, now.
"Vanator, man... he hurts? He hurter? He would hurt me? You... he hurt you."
And it wasn't even a question anymore, and the terror was wrapped so tightly, and the horror so desperately in need of the comfort of living touch, and the spinning dervish of her heart so desperate and afraid, that the immediate fear and senselessness and revulsion simply collapsed under the weight of the heavier need for mutual understanding, for some anchor of belief in compassion. And with a stuttering hesitant hand, looking with solemn, frightened bird-eyes at the beast's queer, dark stare, she reached up a hand, still soft and humid and unbroken by tack and axe-handle. And she lay the delicate, tiny fingers againt the place just below the collarbones, the well-knit muscles over hard bone just beginning to transition into the soft flesh of a bust that would, perhaps, one day feed monster-children. But at that moment, this didn't mater, at the moment, it was a woman, who was in pain, and Ara was the same, and Ara felt, for this small reason, understood and understanding.
"You come... it save me. You come make safe. We hurt you, you come make me safe. We hurt you, he hurt you."
And then, she started to cry - oh in the storybooks of some more compassionate race, the tears would have been pure and clean, the suffering of compassion purely. In truth, it was simple, she was overwhelmed, she had too many things in her head, she was young, she was in fear, and tears just came. But then, perhaps, even in that imperfectly human moment, her mind can be forgiven and given some small measure of acknowledgement - for the tears came, but her heart translated their passing. And the heart made them come first as gratitude, then as sympathy. The heart presented with a place where no emotion made sense, but one had to be chosen, was wise, or naive, enough to choose kindness.
x
And she stared hard at the woman, her child-like face, digging into her eyes, looking. Fear? Fear for Ara? Her hand, her dark, taloned hand, was so gentle on Ara's hair, and her queer, dark-light shadow-hued face was intent. Frightened for her, maybe? Why?
That hand, it touched too soft, and Ara fell into the threats she'd heard, pain, and torture, and rape. A sick feeling over took her belly, and she tried hard to push those thoughts back away - why would this woman threaten her and then...
No.
No, no, she must have misunderstood. She must have mistook the direction. The woman was kind now, was gentle even. She was frightened for ARa's safety. Those threats... no, they meant something else. Her terror coiled itself so tightly, she could wrap it in its own cords, and tuck it away, and something worse crawled up, not the sharp singularity of terror, but the ache and scourge of horror, crawling, slowly into her awareness.
She groped, clumsily for words, her eyes were growing glassy with unshed tears, now.
"Vanator, man... he hurts? He hurter? He would hurt me? You... he hurt you."
And it wasn't even a question anymore, and the terror was wrapped so tightly, and the horror so desperately in need of the comfort of living touch, and the spinning dervish of her heart so desperate and afraid, that the immediate fear and senselessness and revulsion simply collapsed under the weight of the heavier need for mutual understanding, for some anchor of belief in compassion. And with a stuttering hesitant hand, looking with solemn, frightened bird-eyes at the beast's queer, dark stare, she reached up a hand, still soft and humid and unbroken by tack and axe-handle. And she lay the delicate, tiny fingers againt the place just below the collarbones, the well-knit muscles over hard bone just beginning to transition into the soft flesh of a bust that would, perhaps, one day feed monster-children. But at that moment, this didn't mater, at the moment, it was a woman, who was in pain, and Ara was the same, and Ara felt, for this small reason, understood and understanding.
"You come... it save me. You come make safe. We hurt you, you come make me safe. We hurt you, he hurt you."
And then, she started to cry - oh in the storybooks of some more compassionate race, the tears would have been pure and clean, the suffering of compassion purely. In truth, it was simple, she was overwhelmed, she had too many things in her head, she was young, she was in fear, and tears just came. But then, perhaps, even in that imperfectly human moment, her mind can be forgiven and given some small measure of acknowledgement - for the tears came, but her heart translated their passing. And the heart made them come first as gratitude, then as sympathy. The heart presented with a place where no emotion made sense, but one had to be chosen, was wise, or naive, enough to choose kindness.
x
