Unity of the Divided

See me Clearly

I'm still, cold sweeps through my being. We joke about a lot, but those events have never been spoken about in such disregard. Noone dares to breathe, defend me, and the room goes still in anticipation of what I'll do. The grudge I hold is one that's lasted eighty years and will continue for a lifetime, when summoned it's not taken lightly.

My eyes to snap to hers and in the time that takes I've created twenty various weapons and suspended them in the air around her, each aims at her head or heart.

Her green eyes widen, shaking hands quickly hidden beneath the table as the rest of her is perfectly still, not a single blonde hair is out of place, one move and she's finished, she's all too aware. It seems she's forgotten her place, that she and the rest of Earisle assisted in the murdering of Creallians. In an attempt of transparency, I acknowledge that they were in it more for the power than to weaken me by destroying my people, unlike Watille who wanted me gone.

But the disgust and hatred that rages through me can't be dampened by technicality. The look I send Petra in her seat two to the right from Des is withering, she flinches, her unease mutating into slight terror that tastes delightful.

I rise, our eye contact never breaking as I stalk over to where she sits on the far right. My legs slip between the two slits in my floor length, silk white dress and my heels are the only noise in the room. Each step feels a little more powerful and when I stand behind her, weapons sliding out of my path, my arms are trembling. My eyes are entirely purple and glowing, the whites disappearing as my ability courses through me in response to my negative intentions.

My hands rest on the top of the highbacked wooden chair and tap it with my claw-like nails. I lean in so only she can hear me, despite the desperation seeping out of the others to hear what I have to say.

"You think yourself so high and mighty when in the company of fellow oppressors," I hiss, "but the Power Thrice was demolished," I trail a claw down her neck, "I saw to that."

The Power Thrice was what the three kingdoms called themselves when they united for the sake of Creallian oppression. I admit my part in why Petra felt comfortable enough to ask such a daring question, I've allowed these lesser rulers to feel in control, let them believe their status is stable. It was for the sake of entertainment, when everyone fears you the world becomes unexpectedly boring. That was my way of life many centuries ago.

This may be why my outburst is proving incredibly effective, I have surprise on my side. For the past turns I've kept the peace, agreed that the rules should apply to me. But when you're the one who created the concept of a 'rule', an entitlement to cheat the game creeps in.

"Speak to me with disrespect again you'll be the first kill in the mass eradication of all Earills'."

Petra doesn't move, speak, blink. I hope she stays that way. At once my eyes return to normal and I lower the weapons to the floor as my anger leaves me in a long exhale. Back straight and shoulders level I stand and take stock of the room.

The faces of the representatives and council members that were previously blurs in my narrow-focused rage are now crystal clear. Shock appears a friend to many, leaving little room to express much else. Cancia is prideful, she smiles as I look at her and I soften a little. Farlin on the other hand appears concerned, he most likely read my mind the entire time and so is more informed than the others. An educated guess has me thinking my murderous threat is what brought about his frown.

Even water boys stoic face has twisted to one of slight curiosity. But Des takes the cake, eyes burning as if lit by my fire, awe at my display of power, his hands gripping the chair arms and body poised to stand, ready to assist if I needed him.

With my right hand that hangs by my side I draw a small x in the air, discreet and out of sight from others. Instantly the weapons disappear, faint black smoke left in their wake. A language shared between us, our little secret, comes in handy when words aren't fitting.

For the sake of peace I walk away, storming out of the room with a face like thunder.

My company isn't valued, clearly, or they'd appreciate my pleasantries and treat me with the respect I deserve.

As I'm rounding the corner out of the doors I hear a chair scrape.

"Maveth, sit."

It's Farlin calling to Destruction by the name he currently goes by. It's a warning call saying it's not good judgement to go after me, that he doesn't approve. But Maveth knows he could kill the entire room with the snap of his fingers, so I doubt he's bothered by the wrath of the council head.

My walk turns to a run and I pull my dress hem up, my fists full of fabric. Sadness washes over me like a wave replacing the boiling rage that always seems a small moment away from reappearing.

Thoughts flood through my mind of those dark days, the anguish and frustration, loss and helplessness. Creallians on leashes dressed up and accessorised like pretty play things. They became an everyday normalcy where those without one were sent disappointed looks.

Or if they didn't need us at their complete beck and call we found our homes to be cages covered in thorns. We were at the complete disposal of the Power Thrice and they abused that power.

My eyes start to water, no amount of time makes the memories less painful, rids me of how disgusted I felt in my own skin. I don't want my sorrow to be seen so I flee, disguising it with my anger.

Rapid footsteps are reaching for me and it drives me to be faster as I soar past the arched gaps in the marble, moonlight streams through lighting up my path.

The way forward becomes a blur and a single tear falls just as Maveth reaches me. His hand covers mine and I'm spun around and pulled towards him, we stand by one of the arched gaps, I see the light of the moon behind my now closed eyes. I grind my teeth to stop my lip from quivering, why is it that he always sees me in such a state.

His fingertips are soft against my cheek as he wipes my tear away but I can't bring myself to look at him, though his eyes on me nearly has me persuaded. He threads his fingers with mine and I'm surprised by the gentle action. That simple act is the information, confirmation, and reassurance of where we stand.

The urge to break is strong, the heat he radiates is inviting and the promise of strong arms around me has me yearning to fall against his muscled body. But that's not me.

A moment is all I need. A brief drooping of my shoulders and the bowing of my head, my back not straight and my head filled with sorrows, I sniff. His hand cups my cheek and I lean into it. A singular moment of weakness. I take in a shaky breath, eyes still closed, and hold it.

Exhale, I step back. He squeezes my hand lightly before letting it go and I open my eyes. Now we stand four feet apart, just looking at each other as my composure snaps back like a switch has been flipped. This is how I've always been, how I handle the trials of existence. And he knows. I see it in the way he looks at me, his posture, the energy he radiates. Complete understanding and he always chooses to respect it.

We're dissimilar in this, when things get tough he acts out. Everybody knows when Destruction is having a bad day.

Nothing needs to be said so I leave. One step back, then another, another, then I pivot round, and my back is to him. I've never struggled to walk away, not ever being the one who looks over their shoulder and so I continue on until I no longer feel his eyes on me, but the absence of another presence is too familiar, so that feeling is no competition with the sadness that's taken a permanent residence in my heart.