Emotion

She is not a myth. Not a myth, or a legend, or notorious or whatever it is that they call her these days. She is a woman, flesh and blood, as given to the same whims and fluctuating emotion as the rest of them, albeit she approaches such things with more honesty and presence of mind.

At least, this is what she tells herself.

Her lips are dry in the mornings, breath warm and caking the insides of her mouth like a virus. This always culminates in a moment of self-disgust, yet simultaneous and suppressed an odd sort of rapture. Fascination at the thought that she has been breathing through her nose throughout the night, that this very oxygen giving her mouth such an acrid taste is the very same breath that she took in the evening, just as her mind curled into sleep.

So despite discomfort, she lingers for a while, cool sheets pulled to her chin and clenched there with white-knuckled fists as she withholds an urge to urinate, to relieve herself so that she can renew the day into the clean promise of splendor. For splendor is what she feels will be her fate, for these few scarce minutes of dawn, the grey sun just beginning to peer over the fog-blurred horizon.

A faint mist coats the windowpane, fairy-dust sprinkled in the late night, and she presses her hand to the cold glass, moving her palm against the condensation, smoothing it away in a single gesture.

Such beauty, in the dawn.

Such promise of clean beginning and sin as easily forgotten as it was committed.

She sits up and draws her legs up to her chest, pressing the crown of her forehead against her knees, each exhalation warm against her thighs. She can feel the light coating her back like the cool touch of a child, frail but sure.

It takes a moment before she can stand, and cross to the basin to rinse her mouth with peppermint and water, the heat and the heaviness sharpening to cold and crystal alertness. And suddenly her mind is bladelike, the precarious edge of a razor, breaths coming quicker, more confident, more ready.

She glances back to the bed, where a sleeping body still lies, white sheets falling over the subtle curves of a torso and hips, an arm outstretched as though reaching for something to hold. The light falls gracefully upon the edge of a cheekbone, white as snow and almost as pure, rose lips parted slightly. The woman barely seems to breathe, her form fitting so easily to the bed, head still upon the pillow, cradled by corn-silk curls and made almost innocent by the pale splattering of golden freckles across the bridge of her nose.

To her, at least, I am no legend. I am real.

She crosses toward the other, hesitating only briefly before falling to one knee, leaning over to touch her fingertips to the curve of a chin.

The golden woman shifts, a soft sound escaping from her lips and hazel eyes flutter open, unfocused for a moment, crossing, before clearing as they center on the face before her.

"How long have you been awake?"

She smiles, and withdraws her hand, relaxing into a seated position. "Only a few minutes. I did not mean to wake you."

The woman sits up, leaning against the palm of one hand braced against the bed, her head tilting to the side. "Really, Rowena, you must stop apologizing for the most ridiculous things."

Rowena allows her a small, almost forced smile and she stands, turning her back as she crosses to the basin once more, dipping slender hands into the water and dabbing a bit on her neck, a sigh falling from her lips like a weight into the bowl.

"Of course." She bites her tongue to keep from apologizing again.

She tries to remember the emotions of last night, though it is more difficult now in the light of day, without the guidance of velvet dusk, flickering candles, and Helga's lips soft as clay molding against her own.

Rowena wipes her hands on her bare thighs, leaving finger-trails of water in their wake, dripping down toward her knees. Emotion is a fickle thing, sometimes there, sometimes as distant as if she had only imagined being able to feel.

She wishes that she could swear to humanity, but as of late it seems to be a medal that only the most noble can achieve. For the first time that she felt rust on her hands, the darkening stain of dried blood spreading from not just her fingers but along her arms, coating her shoulders, her chest, her heart...she knew that she could never go back.

Logic had chosen itself as her path, and follow it she must. And as the hours passed, with her staring into the lake, still-bloodied hands clenched against the black rocks, it seemed to make more sense, to become increasingly rational with the fading of the minutes. Her actions had not been those of reason, but rather those of fear, and anger, and emotion.

Even as she had sat by the body, out of breath, her heart slamming itself against her ribcage so hard that she swore her bone would crack, she had felt not guilt--or regret--or the stain of transgression...rather, she had felt pride. Emotion burned a path through her gut and erupted in her chest and she had laughed, laughed until she cried, tears falling upon the split chest of her enemy and mixing with his already-congealing cruor.

But that very laugh clenched into a retch and she found herself heaving over his corpse, vomit dribbling down her chin and making puddles in the hollow between his collarbones and his neck. Her torso hurled itself in a rippling motion over the body and she threw up until there was naught left but bile, acidic brown liquid that she spat to the side, each breath rattling in her chest, crawling on her hands and knees toward the lake.

When she washed her hands, the blood sent a stream of red through the water, fading to rose, then disappearing altogether as it dissipated into grateful oblivion. It was then that she realized that she could never--ever--let the fear take hold like that again.

Helga was moving toward her now, and Rowena realized that she had been standing still at the basin for several minutes, oblivious to anything the other woman may or may not have spoken to her, hands limp in the water, pupils dilated and fixed upon something that only she could see.

Rowena jerked away from Helga's touch and turned her back, finding a dress in the closet and yanking it over her head, simply jerking her chin in a nod when her colleague asked if she were all right.

There was silence for a moment, then the splashing of water: Helga must be rinsing her face.

Poikilo-thron' athanat' Aphrodita, pai dios doloploka lissomai se, me m'asaisi med' oniaisi damna--

Poikilo-thron' athanat' Aphrodita, pai dios doloploka--

Poikilo-thron'--

She can not think. Memory fails her.

What emotion is it now that is blocking her mind? Rowena's gaze is fixed upon the wood of the wardrobe door, eyes following the curve of each knot, blackening toward the center, disappearing into oblivion.

I have emotion. You just can't see it.

Poikilo-thron'....