set for the afternoon of the 14th
she ought to have visited her brother by now. she ought to have stopped by. she knows where he is. she's seen the healer go back and forth from there; she's seen the well-worn trail left by her parents.
but she hasn't—and she doesn't want to.
as soon as she knew he breathed, Avicus's worry had faded away. he lives. he breathes. and still,
still, the attention is wholly fixated on him, and she's been left behind.
jealousy burns in her belly and gnaws at her bones. her rage at the pale woman has faded with the days, but the irritation with her own continues on. fawning over
Aventus. . .what's the deal, anyway? he's not dead. he's going to live. there's no need to mourn.
they'd forgotten her. that's all there was to it. they have forgotten clever, capable Avicus, and worship a little broken boy instead. she burns bright, but they are drawn to a shadow.
she stomps along a hunting trail in the far north of the valley, her ribs intact, her body whole.
now she is become the shadow, and her brother the funeral pyre.
her eyes roll sideways to track Merrick's approach, and then roll almost (almost) imperceptibly upward. whether her father will chasten her for the silent sass is up to him. for her part, she lets him walk alongside her, chewing on his words, his silent question.
not dead,
she finally says, looking straight ahead, giving a slight shrug of her shoulders. that's just a fact. Aventus had survived the assault upon him. he is alive. she would visit his body if he had perished—perhaps more out of curiosity than anything else—but he is not dead.
his care is not within her paws. she has no responsibility to him. surely Merrick could understand that?
he doesn't understand, and she doesn't know how to make him understand. it's not as if Avicus isn't grateful Aventus is alive—as if she'd wished for him to die—as if she wishes now for him to die. no, a world without her sleek dark brother would not be whole. grateful? yes—though closer to surprised, given how the woman had thrashed him around.
but had he died. . .if his life did not hang in the balance. . .the attention would not have been diverted. she would still be the princess of Ursus; she would not feel abandoned.
how can she explain that, though? how can Merrick understand the petulant envy of a little girl? even if she doesn't see it that way, that's all it is: jealousy. an affront to the charmed, if somewhat violent, life she's known. not hatred or wrath or. . . just. . . simply. . .
it is bitterness. that is all. and her eyes burn as she turns away from her sire, feeling the sting of her perceived abandonment and his words all at once.