She's Not Developed Like We Are

[Latin For Dragula]

((Nona Hart Continued From Something Better))

The sound of metal scraping on stone.

It was a good touchstone. Everybody had a sound in their head when they read it. She had been sure of that. Whenever appropriate in her longer stories, she came back to that audio metaphor. You didn't have to understand how metal sharpened to know that there was effort to curating its edge by hand, or that improvement cost the blade something. Its shriek told the story of both and spoke when a character was beyond words. The intimate relationship between weapon and wielder was a fantasy staple, but she felt the pain inherent to such a relationship was rarely focused on. The warrior sheers away the parts of his steel that are no longer fit for battle, much like over time its edge will whittle away his own dull, unnecessary fragments in conflict. If either spared the other maintenance, neither would remain a useful tool for long. It was poetic, she thought. Also kinda cliche. Nona had never pretended to be a ground breaking writer, she barely considered herself a writer at all. It wasn't like she had personal knowledge of combat and loss. The only fight she'd ever been in had been one-sided enough not to count, and she'd never had a weapon before.

She hadn't had one when she opened the bag. The thing in her bag was wicked in design. Deep burnt red leather, burnished copper held by steel nails, and long, gleaming blades jutting from the plates along every finger save for the thumb. Its loose fit felt immaterial when the hinge across the wrist clasped it firmly to her hand. The weight of it in the air hurt her arm to swing, but she could swing. Clutch. Stab. If this were a different story there would be a moment where she saw herself sweating in the reflection of the knives. Her face would be twisted in determination. Her chest would burn but not break. The weight would be a comfort to her, an assurance that she could do what was to come. If she were writing out an arc for the character of Nona Hart, that would be a compelling next step, right?

The sound of metal scraping on stone.

Nona had collapsed to the wet ground and curled tight around herself. Sobs wracked her body and carried out into the quiet night. It was good she had wandered so far from where Garnet and Christine slept. It was good she was not a weapon, and that she did not have one. If the metal kissing the suddenly bare skin of her arms had not been too dull to cut she would have scraped until there was nothing left. The only comfort brought by their touch was reassurance that this couldn't be real; why would someone command you to murder and then give you a blunted weapon? She couldn't find much pleasure in the discovery. It moved her nowhere new.

There had been an impulse when leaving the waterfall, one that came from a place inside her she rarely indulged in the physical world. It had demanded answers. It felt the weight in the bags. Knew why she had collected the stones along her walk, why this thing stayed hidden instead of cast away the moment she found it. Nona did not know how to fulfill that impulse, though. Sharpening the blades was beyond her, she'd read about it often enough that she knew how in theory but she couldn't raise her hands knowing where this led. Of course she didn't have to hurt anybody. Point them the right way, say the right words, and this whole thing would come tumbling down. They'd let her go home after she scared them back to reality. That was the idealistic plan. All the ways it could go wrong spider-webbed out from there and left her too nauseous to sit up.

The sound of metal scraping on stone.

How close would she have to be? Would they have to feel its cold touch to understand she was serious? What if everyone just ran away? What if they decided to hurt her? Worst of all, what if she really hurt someone? Was it worth it when this would all be over eventually? Why not just lay down? Why not do what she had always done, whatever she was told until the situation passed? It was an option. Always an option. If she took the glove off now and went back she could wait until the others woke up and pretend this never happened. It would not be the first time she let an impulse like this fester. They never escaped into the real world. She wasn't that person, no matter how often she wanted to slip into his skin.

Her mind drifted back to 1 in 30000, and the very real possibility no one was lying to her. That was all the more reason she didn't have to do this, right? If it was all true, then nobody here had any answers for her. Scaring them, even hurting them, would not free her. She was never going home. She was never going home. The thought made her pivot just as it had when they left; if she was going to die, did she want to die like this? Afraid, alone, lying, hopeless, weak, unworthy as she always had been? Is that the last thing she wanted anyone to see of her?

The sound of metal scraping on stone.

Nona couldn't create it.

Nona never got up off the ground.

((Nona Hart Concluded.))



























((G066: _____ Hart Game Start))

The sound of metal scrapping against stone.

It was not some magical transformation. Nothing had changed. Not ___ mind, and certainly not ___ body. The tears still dripped down ___ face and the gauntlet was as heavy as it had been before __ got up. ___ moment of truth did not instantly transfigure ___ into an entity that could do everything __ had always dreamed of anymore than it took ___ home. _____ knew that before __ picked up rocks from ___ bag; round and fine-grained, worn smooth by the rushing water. __ had collected them, just as __ had almost tumbled down the waterfall and __ had collapsed in Garnet's arms looking for release and __ had given up in the dirt a few moments ago. __ was the same person through and through, there was no escaping that. This halfway step between erasure and hesitation, though, it was necessary. __ was not ready to be _____ anymore than __ could continue to be ____.

Like the knives squealing against the rocks in ___ hands, __ needed sharpening. Time. Effort. Pain. That's what this was, not an instant switch but a mental exercise to ease the...no, __ still couldn't use that word. Still didn't deserve it. __ hadn't forgotten that __ was a freak. __ had not forgotten helplessness either, though. Blood dripping down ___ skin in isolation with the sense that no one cared. If __ never came out of ___ room that night no one ever would have known who __ was, and worse than death was the thought of dying unknown. __ might be a fake, but so was ___, and if __ had to die feeling trapped in a lie __ would choose the one that made ___ happy. If __ was right, if this was all just a prank gone wildly out of hand, there would be a lot of consequences to deal with that had kept ___ hiding.

The feel of metal cutting across skin.

It was ready. __ was ready. Tomorrow __ would find ___ answers. One way or another, __ would be sharpened.

((_____ Hart Continued In His Whole Life Packed In Two Bags, Just Two Bags))