[ she smiles in turn, but it is not one of her usual. solemn and muted in light, truly nothing more than a forced crinkle at the corners of her mouth. ]
I don't know if I'll ever get used to it, [ she admits. she had been a soldier once, for a time. and though she was not terrible at it (despite her words) she does not yet bear the heart of a killer, and thus death will still haunt her no matter how often she comes across it.
slowly she lowers her head, gaze drifting down towards the shores where the bodies lie, not more than fifteen feet away. their smells have since mingled with that of the sea, making for an order that, while still unpleasant, is at least subdued enough to make their proximity tolerable.
unconsciously, her hands drift down to his own, fingertips light over his palms. ]
I've found five so far... I don't know if there are any more.
[He clasps her hands in the way that a child might cup a butterfly, and he gives a gentle squeeze as his gaze too falls to the crooked row of bodies. Lying thus, the Nalawi hardly appear any different from deer claimed in the hunt, or livestock slit open at the throat that the rich blood may grace the sacrificial altar: yet still he feels sorrow's touch at the edges of his heart, for these were their hosts in this foreign land. It strikes him that Olivia alone must have gathered the bodies upon this spot, and again he squeezes the soft hands which performed a duty so grim.
Soon his hands withdraw and he goes to kneel in the sand beside the bodies. Each is sodden and smeared with a second skin of grime, through which violent wounds bloom.]
Was it truly the tempest which tore life from your limbs? Then whence did these gashes come?
[ she stands just beside him, quiet and still in her reverence. though it pains her (almost physically so) to look upon the bodies once more, left twisted and exposed by the sea, she knows it is a greater disrespect to treat death as if it were some grotesque thing.
and so she stands, just a few feet away, hands clenched at her lap and with her lips tightly shut. she tries to keep her breaths shallow, and her mouth closed. swallows back the bile that threatens to rise every now and then, and even manages to blink back the tears that nearly spill.
when he muses outloud she thinks to answer, but takes care to keep her voice low. ]
It has to be from a blade... the cut is too clean, otherwise.
Indeed, this is the concern which grows too in my heart. For well do I know the appearance of wounds inflicted by the arms of men, and none else could cause lacerations so precise as these. I know not, however, who could have cause to murder these our hosts, whether from among our crew or the Nalawi themselves.
[So speaking, he stands once more and turns to Olivia, whose distress is as obvious as the clouds which pass over the sun and steal away its light. His touch upon her arm is light when he ushers her away from the grim display of death. He does not intend to mitigate whatever grief fills her breast, however, for mourning is a ritual demanded by his people: it shows not weakness of the heart, but strength of compassion.]
Need you time to mourn? Then pound your fist upon your breast and tear at your hair, for there will be time enough while I dig for these Nalawi their grave. Perhaps there will be time enough too for the fathers and mothers, the brothers and sisters, the husbands and wives, to learn that their dear ones have been torn away in the storm, and they shall seek the truth of what happened. Then we may at least learn the names of those lost.
[There is a moment where he appears as if he might object, but there is something in her eyes which brings him to instead give a solemn nod. Up the shore, amidst the wind-whipped wreckage, he manages to find some manner of garden trowel, which he passes to her. Further searching will yield a shovel of his own.
They find a quiet spot back from the shore and away from the huts where cloven-footed men and women bustle try again to piece together their shaken lives. There in the shaded shelter of a grove Achilles sets to breaking the storm-softened ground. It is slow work but even as his muscles tire he does not pause. There will be no reprieve for the dead nor for him until they are granted proper burial.
When at last the bodies are given unto the bosom of the nourishing earth, he bids Olivia to fetch stones with which to mark the grave, one for each body lain to rest therein. He will hunt for a matching bounty of the diminutive boar-like creatures he has seen rooting through the underbrush on this island, that he might slit their throats before the grave and with the spilling of their blood offer up prayers. Such a ritual does not quite fit the orthodox mold, but it is what he can offer to the fallen of this unfortunate race.]
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no subject
I don't know if I'll ever get used to it, [ she admits. she had been a soldier once, for a time. and though she was not terrible at it (despite her words) she does not yet bear the heart of a killer, and thus death will still haunt her no matter how often she comes across it.
slowly she lowers her head, gaze drifting down towards the shores where the bodies lie, not more than fifteen feet away. their smells have since mingled with that of the sea, making for an order that, while still unpleasant, is at least subdued enough to make their proximity tolerable.
unconsciously, her hands drift down to his own, fingertips light over his palms. ]
I've found five so far... I don't know if there are any more.
no subject
Soon his hands withdraw and he goes to kneel in the sand beside the bodies. Each is sodden and smeared with a second skin of grime, through which violent wounds bloom.]
Was it truly the tempest which tore life from your limbs? Then whence did these gashes come?
no subject
and so she stands, just a few feet away, hands clenched at her lap and with her lips tightly shut. she tries to keep her breaths shallow, and her mouth closed. swallows back the bile that threatens to rise every now and then, and even manages to blink back the tears that nearly spill.
when he muses outloud she thinks to answer, but takes care to keep her voice low. ]
It has to be from a blade... the cut is too clean, otherwise.
forever later...
[So speaking, he stands once more and turns to Olivia, whose distress is as obvious as the clouds which pass over the sun and steal away its light. His touch upon her arm is light when he ushers her away from the grim display of death. He does not intend to mitigate whatever grief fills her breast, however, for mourning is a ritual demanded by his people: it shows not weakness of the heart, but strength of compassion.]
Need you time to mourn? Then pound your fist upon your breast and tear at your hair, for there will be time enough while I dig for these Nalawi their grave. Perhaps there will be time enough too for the fathers and mothers, the brothers and sisters, the husbands and wives, to learn that their dear ones have been torn away in the storm, and they shall seek the truth of what happened. Then we may at least learn the names of those lost.
me dos
but she only shakes her head, glancing back up at him to fashion a brave smile. ]
I'll help you dig, [ she insists. ] It... wouldn't feel right to just walk away.
shall we wrap this up here?
They find a quiet spot back from the shore and away from the huts where cloven-footed men and women bustle try again to piece together their shaken lives. There in the shaded shelter of a grove Achilles sets to breaking the storm-softened ground. It is slow work but even as his muscles tire he does not pause. There will be no reprieve for the dead nor for him until they are granted proper burial.
When at last the bodies are given unto the bosom of the nourishing earth, he bids Olivia to fetch stones with which to mark the grave, one for each body lain to rest therein. He will hunt for a matching bounty of the diminutive boar-like creatures he has seen rooting through the underbrush on this island, that he might slit their throats before the grave and with the spilling of their blood offer up prayers. Such a ritual does not quite fit the orthodox mold, but it is what he can offer to the fallen of this unfortunate race.]
no i want at least twenty more tags each