whorls through the cracks in the panes as he watched them skim toward the ceiling; he let them expand and ripple outward into almost nothing before gusting the smoke out his mouth, obliterating the imperfection. Shig could blow smoke rings, pink lips puckered in a supple O-shape and a crack of her jaw. Jacin tried, but he just got vaguely circular clouds and blobs, and then he got annoyed, so he didn't try anymore. At least not in front of Shig.
They were moving on—all of them—starting again, and all Jacin could do was watch them and wonder why he couldn't seem to. It had been almost three months, and yet all it took was one careless moment of allowing remembrance, and body-memory kicked in and set him tense, adrenaline swamped him and shortened his breath, pounded through his heart, and then he was there , watching himself do it all over again.
Betrayal and failure and fear and more betrayal and grasping at treacherous hope and death all around him—
Your fault, little Ghost
His teeth clamped tight and he shut his eyes, forcing encroaching memory away. He held his breath and waited for his heart to stop pounding in his throat. Physical pain was one thing, he could live with that, seek it, even, those bright little sparks of controlled sensation that focused his mind and told him he was real, they were the ghosts. This , though, this... pain of the mind, of the heart, of the soul... he had no idea what to do with it. And no one seemed to want to tell him. Not even Malick.
He pushed the last of the smoke through his nostrils as he took another sip of the liquor, flicked the ash onto the saucer that had been under the teabowl, and shoved his shoulders more firmly into the mattress. The teabowl had held tea when the inn's maid had brought it. Jacin was sick of tea. There'd been a mostly full bottle of something dark and strong-smelling sitting on the washstand, so he'd dumped the tea in the basin and replaced it with... whatever this stuff was. He accepted the faint buzz as a good sign.
Your emotions make you weak and foolish, little Ghost , Asai told him. And the Temshiel knows it. Why do you suppose he's so afraid to tell you what you are? What you've always been? Great things await you, my gentle mercenary, but you have not the greatness in you to reach them. Your Temshiel knows it. I can help you rise above what you are. I can help you truly become Fate's hand.
Jacin just sneered and took another drink, said, “Fuck you, Beishin,” to the ceiling and set the smoke at an angle between his lips.
You were so much more to me than that , Beishin offered. His voice sounded sad, but Jacin remembered that tone very clearly, and he knew the eyes that went with it were watchful and calculating, looking for weakness, even if he couldn't see them. I would have given you everything. Your sister did not have to die, Jacin-rei. That was not my doing, but yours. You have refused to be what you are, you refuse it still, you refuse perfection. Can you not see the failure you have allowed yourself to become?
He shouldn't have answered, shouldn't have acknowledged, he'd opened the floodgate and now he had to deal with the deluge. “No, I see.” Jacin shoved the smoke out through his teeth and shut his eyes. “I didn't kill you quick enough."
Beishin laughed, a warm, kind thing that still , even after everything, curled a sick knot in Jacin's gut that spiked his chest with regret. He clenched his teeth so hard he bit off the end of the smoke. With a curse, he took it from his mouth and spat the loose paper and leaf into the saucer. He stubbed the smoke out, hauled himself up, and lit another.
Perhaps, little Ghost , Beishin put in, you should ask your Temshiel what you are . A soft chuckle, mockery slinking about its edges. See if he will tell you. Then you can know what you really are to the gods. What you are to treacherous Wolf. What you are to his own. Beishin tsked . Jacin could almost see the disappointment in dark
They were moving on—all of them—starting again, and all Jacin could do was watch them and wonder why he couldn't seem to. It had been almost three months, and yet all it took was one careless moment of allowing remembrance, and body-memory kicked in and set him tense, adrenaline swamped him and shortened his breath, pounded through his heart, and then he was there , watching himself do it all over again.
Betrayal and failure and fear and more betrayal and grasping at treacherous hope and death all around him—
Your fault, little Ghost
His teeth clamped tight and he shut his eyes, forcing encroaching memory away. He held his breath and waited for his heart to stop pounding in his throat. Physical pain was one thing, he could live with that, seek it, even, those bright little sparks of controlled sensation that focused his mind and told him he was real, they were the ghosts. This , though, this... pain of the mind, of the heart, of the soul... he had no idea what to do with it. And no one seemed to want to tell him. Not even Malick.
He pushed the last of the smoke through his nostrils as he took another sip of the liquor, flicked the ash onto the saucer that had been under the teabowl, and shoved his shoulders more firmly into the mattress. The teabowl had held tea when the inn's maid had brought it. Jacin was sick of tea. There'd been a mostly full bottle of something dark and strong-smelling sitting on the washstand, so he'd dumped the tea in the basin and replaced it with... whatever this stuff was. He accepted the faint buzz as a good sign.
Your emotions make you weak and foolish, little Ghost , Asai told him. And the Temshiel knows it. Why do you suppose he's so afraid to tell you what you are? What you've always been? Great things await you, my gentle mercenary, but you have not the greatness in you to reach them. Your Temshiel knows it. I can help you rise above what you are. I can help you truly become Fate's hand.
Jacin just sneered and took another drink, said, “Fuck you, Beishin,” to the ceiling and set the smoke at an angle between his lips.
You were so much more to me than that , Beishin offered. His voice sounded sad, but Jacin remembered that tone very clearly, and he knew the eyes that went with it were watchful and calculating, looking for weakness, even if he couldn't see them. I would have given you everything. Your sister did not have to die, Jacin-rei. That was not my doing, but yours. You have refused to be what you are, you refuse it still, you refuse perfection. Can you not see the failure you have allowed yourself to become?
He shouldn't have answered, shouldn't have acknowledged, he'd opened the floodgate and now he had to deal with the deluge. “No, I see.” Jacin shoved the smoke out through his teeth and shut his eyes. “I didn't kill you quick enough."
Beishin laughed, a warm, kind thing that still , even after everything, curled a sick knot in Jacin's gut that spiked his chest with regret. He clenched his teeth so hard he bit off the end of the smoke. With a curse, he took it from his mouth and spat the loose paper and leaf into the saucer. He stubbed the smoke out, hauled himself up, and lit another.
Perhaps, little Ghost , Beishin put in, you should ask your Temshiel what you are . A soft chuckle, mockery slinking about its edges. See if he will tell you. Then you can know what you really are to the gods. What you are to treacherous Wolf. What you are to his own. Beishin tsked . Jacin could almost see the disappointment in dark
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