She was supposed to be better. She was supposed to be well.
Ieza is too weak at first to shake off Harry's touch, even if she'd wish to. And she doesn't really wish to. In this instance of bare life human contact is welcome, the promise of support, the solace of the living. Who would reject a sincere offer in a state of such extremity? For when Ieza lifts her eyes to Harry, meeting his worried gaze, the look she gives him is something close to despair.
And then, with a thunderbolt's suddenness, it curdles into something like fury. If not quite a perfect storm of wounded pride and ragged desperation, it is still an impressive little emotional thundercloud. The flush in her cheeks burns brighter, drawn face tightening further. She spits out spite like she spat up blood just moments ago.
"No!"
No. No. It won't be that simple. It can't be. And that his advice is really quite good, that the hope he offers might be genuine, only compounds the insult. The very promise of a cure tastes like poison.
No bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, broom-riding teen civil enforcer is going to tell Iezabel of House Sadonna how to undo the consequences of her choices. No foreign practitioner is going to wave their wand or what-have-you and undo the legacy of an ancient empire, her proof, her burden, her gift, her curse. To behave as if she can be helped is an insult not just to her discipline, but to the imperious thing that sits, majestic and dark-winged, talons sinking inch by inch into her heart. Vakis needed no allies or aid. He bore the hegemony on his shoulders for years, no matter the cost to himself.
And what the steaming drek could this potter know, after all, if he can't even explain his own discipline with any clarity?
She utters just one more word, a sinuous flow of syllables that uncoils from her lips:
"Paratheōrēteon!"
As soon as it's said, she's gone.
Of course, she isn't simply gone. This is not an instance of apparation, another praxis should would find absolutely wondrous; something else to envy and covet and resent. Still feeble from the spreading infarction in her lungs, it is all she can do to hobble away.
But memory is the heart of her discipline, and attention is memory's handmaiden, its most loyal attendant. It is not so difficult to send away. At most Harry will sense a presence, fleeting and fleeing- soon gone.
no subject
Ieza is too weak at first to shake off Harry's touch, even if she'd wish to. And she doesn't really wish to. In this instance of bare life human contact is welcome, the promise of support, the solace of the living. Who would reject a sincere offer in a state of such extremity? For when Ieza lifts her eyes to Harry, meeting his worried gaze, the look she gives him is something close to despair.
And then, with a thunderbolt's suddenness, it curdles into something like fury. If not quite a perfect storm of wounded pride and ragged desperation, it is still an impressive little emotional thundercloud. The flush in her cheeks burns brighter, drawn face tightening further. She spits out spite like she spat up blood just moments ago.
"No!"
No. No. It won't be that simple. It can't be. And that his advice is really quite good, that the hope he offers might be genuine, only compounds the insult. The very promise of a cure tastes like poison.
No bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, broom-riding teen civil enforcer is going to tell Iezabel of House Sadonna how to undo the consequences of her choices. No foreign practitioner is going to wave their wand or what-have-you and undo the legacy of an ancient empire, her proof, her burden, her gift, her curse. To behave as if she can be helped is an insult not just to her discipline, but to the imperious thing that sits, majestic and dark-winged, talons sinking inch by inch into her heart. Vakis needed no allies or aid. He bore the hegemony on his shoulders for years, no matter the cost to himself.
And what the steaming drek could this potter know, after all, if he can't even explain his own discipline with any clarity?
She utters just one more word, a sinuous flow of syllables that uncoils from her lips:
"Paratheōrēteon!"
As soon as it's said, she's gone.
Of course, she isn't simply gone. This is not an instance of apparation, another praxis should would find absolutely wondrous; something else to envy and covet and resent. Still feeble from the spreading infarction in her lungs, it is all she can do to hobble away.
But memory is the heart of her discipline, and attention is memory's handmaiden, its most loyal attendant. It is not so difficult to send away. At most Harry will sense a presence, fleeting and fleeing- soon gone.