The silence stretched out. He looked at her but it was as if he were looking through her. It had been the signed words. He felt a cocoon had formed around him, a bubble, sound muffled to the outside world.
A language he had not "heard" since...that day. His eyes felt hot and his throat hurt. But he saw it.
They never spoke of her, not to each other. Ever. They never signed to each other either, though one would think the hunt would make it a necessity. For him, at least, he had had to wall off that part of himself, lest it explode out from him, a fury of grief and rage, made all the worse by the unrelenting pressure he lived under.
And then he realized he had hidden in his role as protector. Refused to be vulnerable, not even to himself. A savior did not need saving.
He had loved his sister. Had tried to be there for her because of that, because she needed him. But now he also realized the selfishness in his self assumed role.
Tentatively he reached across that chasm, fingers flashing, as he examined his sister anew. She would be so proud of you. It hurt, opening that door, speaking of the unspoken. He felt as if he hadn't talked in decades, voice thin and weak from disuse. But it needed to be said.
Even in his savior complex, he had created something. Sesuna had said so and he could not deny the facts. Her words did touch him. He was just a man. He wasn't the Heart, he knew that, no matter what Mena or the Urim said. But that didn't mean he couldn't find one, make one. Had made one.
He reached out a hand to touch hers and then stopped, instead, signing a simple Thank you.
The second time was easier. Something more opened. I miss her. He paused, a memory coming to him, small smile at it in his lips. Remember when she first taught you how to make injera? He couldn't help the grin it turned into. It had been in the traditional way, griddle over coals, woven fans- diameter maybe the distance between his thumbtip and little fingertip- waving to and fro in a rhythm to keep the heat even. Except eight year old Sessy had been standing opposite to Mother, fan waving vigorously rather than in the controlled way she was supposed to use. She was still little and seemed to enjoy the way the coals glowed bright at each gust, laughter punctuating the motion. At first it made no difference. But a sudden burst of wind augmented her efforts and smoke and ash suddenly blew over their mother.
Sputtering and coughing and trying to move out of the direction of fire, Mother was also laughing almost silently, her dark face and clothes now gray with fine soot.
He chuckled at the memory. Poor Sessy. Just being a kid. Thankfully, Mother knew that, never took her to task for it. Always understanding.
It hurt to remember, but it felt good.
He studied her. She wasn't a kid anymore. She still watches over you. Still laughs at your jokes, I bet. His face grew more serious. Sees your wisdom and compassion even with your fool of a brother.
A language he had not "heard" since...that day. His eyes felt hot and his throat hurt. But he saw it.
They never spoke of her, not to each other. Ever. They never signed to each other either, though one would think the hunt would make it a necessity. For him, at least, he had had to wall off that part of himself, lest it explode out from him, a fury of grief and rage, made all the worse by the unrelenting pressure he lived under.
And then he realized he had hidden in his role as protector. Refused to be vulnerable, not even to himself. A savior did not need saving.
He had loved his sister. Had tried to be there for her because of that, because she needed him. But now he also realized the selfishness in his self assumed role.
Tentatively he reached across that chasm, fingers flashing, as he examined his sister anew. She would be so proud of you. It hurt, opening that door, speaking of the unspoken. He felt as if he hadn't talked in decades, voice thin and weak from disuse. But it needed to be said.
Even in his savior complex, he had created something. Sesuna had said so and he could not deny the facts. Her words did touch him. He was just a man. He wasn't the Heart, he knew that, no matter what Mena or the Urim said. But that didn't mean he couldn't find one, make one. Had made one.
He reached out a hand to touch hers and then stopped, instead, signing a simple Thank you.
The second time was easier. Something more opened. I miss her. He paused, a memory coming to him, small smile at it in his lips. Remember when she first taught you how to make injera? He couldn't help the grin it turned into. It had been in the traditional way, griddle over coals, woven fans- diameter maybe the distance between his thumbtip and little fingertip- waving to and fro in a rhythm to keep the heat even. Except eight year old Sessy had been standing opposite to Mother, fan waving vigorously rather than in the controlled way she was supposed to use. She was still little and seemed to enjoy the way the coals glowed bright at each gust, laughter punctuating the motion. At first it made no difference. But a sudden burst of wind augmented her efforts and smoke and ash suddenly blew over their mother.
Sputtering and coughing and trying to move out of the direction of fire, Mother was also laughing almost silently, her dark face and clothes now gray with fine soot.
He chuckled at the memory. Poor Sessy. Just being a kid. Thankfully, Mother knew that, never took her to task for it. Always understanding.
It hurt to remember, but it felt good.
He studied her. She wasn't a kid anymore. She still watches over you. Still laughs at your jokes, I bet. His face grew more serious. Sees your wisdom and compassion even with your fool of a brother.