She was almost silent. A human would not have heard her cry, her whispers,
or her quiet tears. But of course I am not human. Rats have only average
eyesight, and as I grow older mine is fading. But our hearing and our
sense of smell is far beyond what human beings can experience.
Or so I have read in one of Donatello's books. Having never been human I can only assume the book is correct.
I knew well what that sort of weeping is caused by. Not simply nightmares but nightmares born of true memory. Harsh Memory. I have dreamt such dreams myself, and I know well the smell of them in the darkest point of the night.
Memory is both a gift and a curse. It is the thing that keeps us warm in the coldest part of the winter, and brings joy to us even at the very heart of the night, when no hope seems to be able to shine. And yet, it turns traitor so easily. Memory can easily twist and bite with teeth sharper than any beast on this world. Even sharper than the teeth of mankind.
I paused only long enough to pour a cup of herbal tea.
Her dream still had her in its grasp, and so she did not look up when I opened the door and stepped in.
I watched her for a moment, thinking it would be better to let her see me first. She was utterly exposed in that moment, all of her armor gone. All of her masks set aside. This was Jessica Walker...and she was a frightened and hurt girl. Her wounds, the wounds on her soul, only hinted at in her eyes before, were now lain before me.
After a long moment, she did look up at me, her face streaked with tears. She didn't look alarmed, or ashamed, but simply gazed back at me as if to say *Yes old one. Now you see. You don't know the details, but those don't matter. Now you know.*
I moved to the table and lit the candles there and set the cup down. Then I turned back, and we studied each other for a long moment.
I was the first to speak.
Or so I have read in one of Donatello's books. Having never been human I can only assume the book is correct.
I knew well what that sort of weeping is caused by. Not simply nightmares but nightmares born of true memory. Harsh Memory. I have dreamt such dreams myself, and I know well the smell of them in the darkest point of the night.
Memory is both a gift and a curse. It is the thing that keeps us warm in the coldest part of the winter, and brings joy to us even at the very heart of the night, when no hope seems to be able to shine. And yet, it turns traitor so easily. Memory can easily twist and bite with teeth sharper than any beast on this world. Even sharper than the teeth of mankind.
I paused only long enough to pour a cup of herbal tea.
Her dream still had her in its grasp, and so she did not look up when I opened the door and stepped in.
I watched her for a moment, thinking it would be better to let her see me first. She was utterly exposed in that moment, all of her armor gone. All of her masks set aside. This was Jessica Walker...and she was a frightened and hurt girl. Her wounds, the wounds on her soul, only hinted at in her eyes before, were now lain before me.
After a long moment, she did look up at me, her face streaked with tears. She didn't look alarmed, or ashamed, but simply gazed back at me as if to say *Yes old one. Now you see. You don't know the details, but those don't matter. Now you know.*
I moved to the table and lit the candles there and set the cup down. Then I turned back, and we studied each other for a long moment.
I was the first to speak.
