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ephemeralove · 5 months

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blood on the whetstone

Rusalka reminds her of what she can never cease to be.

When she was little, she had wanted a mother... though not specifically a mother, per se. She had wanted a family, a friend, a companion, a confidant -- she had wanted someone, anyone, who when they reached out their hand would not strike her down, but pull her back up. She had wanted to be loved.

By the time she arrives in Rusalka, Katarina has been slotted into the place where she belongs. Like one piece out of many to fashion a weapon, she is pointed twice over: first by the church towards the terrible unknown, and second by their guide Keranes. She presents them neither crimes nor comfort -- only familiar faces with which to bloody their hands. They number fourteen, a perfect mirror, and by their sacrifice they might dismantle this illusory village and cut the evil from its heart. Yet look as she might, all Katarina sees are the faces of those who have been loved.

Then one rainy day there came a woman robed in lovely colors-- a lady, not a mother -- who extended her hand. Not that Reese had known what to do with it. She shrank away as violets do, staring, quivering, scared. At that, the woman had laughed. It was a beautiful sound; no one had ever laughed for her before; and so she could not hear how still no one ever had. My name is Eremiyah, the woman had said, and that would be the first and only time Reese called her by name alone. Eremiyah, she had repeated, and there were stars in her eyes.

And there are stars in her eyes, brilliant, blue, and bright. The confusion of why Kris is here is rarely ever comparable to the joy of the simple fact of it. Her hand hovers by his elbow, but when he speaks, she knows: he is not her Kris. Perhaps he is not even Kris at all. Keranes' words echo in the back of her skull, a death knell that calls for half his number, but in her selfishness she does not want to give him up, not even if he is false. She worries that this will be their undoing, and worries more that she might regret not following him when he pulls away.

Her chin, poised between thumb and forefinger; the first hand to hold and not to hurt. "You'll do as I say. Won't you, Reese?" Pressure placed lightly at the point of bone. She could break away, if she wanted to, but then she would disappoint her. Clarisse would scoff, and Roro would laugh in the way she'd learned she didn't like. Blood smears on the fine edge of a blade Reese hesitates to hold, beading against the soft flesh of her palm, and Lady Eremiyah smiles the smile she would do anything for. "After all, your life exists for mine."

The sun has only just kissed its zenith in the sky when she looks down upon a young man's corpse. The first attempt on his life comes from the very man who had loved him into this place; the first to claim it from a girl whose mercy is to usher him away once more. It is through their first incendiary actions that Rusalka's soil turns copper and foul, though she cannot find it in herself to blame them. If not them, then someone else would have broken this tepid peace. Someone else would have hated her for the blood they spilled, faulted her for the crimes she learned because of them. Rusalka is not so different from Knorda.

Knorda was only ever beautiful when it was silent. Reese had never loved it, but she had liked it most when the night swept away the day and all its angels went to sleep, so that finally she could scrabble through the garbage for a bite to eat, and finally she could have a moment of rest until morning's first unfriendly heel found her ribs again. They were what Lady Eremiyah taught her not to be -- no, she was a weapon of a different kind. Her timidity, her soft-spoken manner, every facet of who she was refashioned into a tool until she could no longer trust herself. ...until she learned that earnestness was the best way to slip a knife between the ribs.

On their second morning, she is minded of Altea Castle -- not before her departure, but after her return. The once-and-no-longer tactician wears all the mistrust and suspicion with the familiarity of one who would be uncomfortable without it, instead standing at a lonesome edge in contemplation of her worry. Such mundane things as were her joy before (Had he eaten enough? Slept enough? He wasn't hiding any injuries, was he?) are vanished in the moment; are her sorrow now. And for good reason: Kris never comes back.

She killed because she was told to, because that was what she was made to be, and because-- she knew well this was the truth-- she had never chosen for herself to be better. In the end, she still never chose for herself, but for a bright blue star. He was the first to offer his hand and let her be; without carving her, without remaking her, she was enough for him the way she was. And he had laughed for her, once. It was a beautiful sound; no one had ever laughed for her before; and so she could finally hear how wonderful it was to be loved.

The path out of Rusalka they cut for themselves (she is not alone in her mourning, in her worry and sorrow) ends with a body. He lays in the dirt like some half forgotten thing, like his corpse is a pedestal to triumph, and Katarina hates it. Loathes it. Herself most of all for the fact that she will continue regardless of if he is true and real, because death is absolution for a sinner, and the things (the person) he loves remain behind.

The path into what she supposed was her home was as dark as she remembered, for she and they had lived there, and it was never a place meant for lovable things. But there was something worth saving now, though he would live on without her, and though he did not need to be saved. Yet he was the choice she made, and so she led them, light into the darkness.

One final act of defiance, the metaphorical guillotine at her throat--

--the metaphorical guillotine at his throat, the weapon he once polished now having bled him dry--

--the weapon she once polished now having bled her dry, and Katarina leaves her body in the dirt, blood sticky beneath her hands--

--and Katarina leaves his body in the dirt, wildflowers mournful beneath his hands, and it terrifies her that she has no answer for the question heavy at the back of her mind.

Am I... different than I was back then?

They return to Rusalka; light ebbs into darkness ebbs into light. She considers in frenetic, wounded, resentful cycles all manner of things: Who was it? Did they think he was real? Why did they choose him? Was his blood so easy to spill? They make a torrent, a maelstrom, gnashing the kindness she wants to be between the fangs of heartache. And Keranes asked this of them, did she not? She had set them upon their hearts and by this upon each other, a tepid why offered without so much as a how -- and they all had been so happy to oblige.

...In the end, she does not kill because she chooses not to, even if choice has been a hard thing to learn.

(The blade remains sharp, for the past can never be unmade. It is part of her, and she is Katarina: a lady's broken blade, the king's knife, and the sum of the love she has been given & the blood on the whetstone.)

#drabble tag #i'll make a real one later HFHSDHFHSDF #WC: 1337

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