|not a sister, not a saint
Author: vapanalley PM
Wildwood Dancing. If Jena had left all her problems behind for Tadeusz.Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst - Words: 424 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 2 - Published: 02-05-11 - Status: Complete - id: 6719510
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
No profiting. No owning. Brain is babbling. This is my first attempt at first person. How did I do?
I left three days before Father came home. Anastasia tells me of how he had cried and cried. I don't listen too carefully because I know that he cried. I was there. But I let her have her moment, because over all this time I've come to pity her a little. I never tolerate her, but I understand how she can feel at times. Never a close enough understanding. I don't enjoy watching the suffering of others.
I watched as a barely a fortnight later Tati passed onto a realm completely unknown to those of mortals, fey, or Night People. I watched as she took a deep breath and sighed away all her worries in a single whoosh of air. I watched as my three sisters took in Tati's best dress and plaited her hair with care. They each placed a little something into her casket at her funeral. Paula, a little box of parchment and ink; Stela, a little ribbon; Iulia, her favorite rabbit hat, all went into the casket. But I couldn't give anything to Tati except for my best wishes said at the edge of the forest in a whisper.
I watched it all, but I let Anastasia speak word after word, describing for me down to the tiniest detail just how deep the sorrow ran after my departure. I nod as she prattles on about Costi and his new wife. I was at his wedding.
But at the end of the day, at the rise of the moon, it is I, who stands at Tadeusz's side. It is I, who takes his hand when we, the Night People, spring forth from our resting places and set ourselves loose into the night. It is I, who lead our people at Tadeusz's side. It is his cold hand on my cheek, neck, waist; his beetle-black eyes watching my every move. And it is I who walks with him into the shadows on the most intimate of nights.
I don't let Anastasia have the satisfaction of knowing that I dream of warm hands and green eyes like pondweed and home. I dream of early mornings when light shines through that one stained glass window in the room I had shared with my sisters. I empathize, but I do not sympathize with Allure. She is no sister and I am no saint.