Vanya watches him speak, motionless. At some point, she notices her arms have crossed themselves, hunching her into a convex little shield. At first, she wants to cry. Why are there so many people here that want to help her? She bumbled through life ignored by family, fortune and the whole world. She told herself all her life that things would be different if she had powers. At great cost, she was right.
Twenty-seven years of numbness and neglect formed itself a mask over Vanya's face. Expressions come as little twitches in shifting angles. Time and revelation have begun to erode the thing. Another piece cracks away as she listens to Sam. Empathy rushes through the opening, creasing her brow, pulling down the corners of her mouth. Why do people do this? What is the benefit of deciding a child's fate and torturing them when they can't fit themselves into the false mold? How many more people have stories like her own, like her siblings'?
There is one markedly different part, and Vanya asks in what might be a squak if her voice weren't so low, "demon blood?" The question is out before she can stop it. Sam gives the most relatable shrug - uncomfortable, yet resigned - and she feels the same as him all over again. Her arms drop to her sides.
She adds, so as not to raise questions that she might be judging him, mouth quirked at the sides in a very small smile she cannot explain, "your family thought about killing you, too, huh?"
Suddenly, she doesn't want to have this conversation outside, anymore. It's cold and she thinks she can still feel the far away ripples of the destructive energy she's converted. She jerks her head toward the place and says, "come on. I think I owe you at least a coffee."
no subject
Twenty-seven years of numbness and neglect formed itself a mask over Vanya's face. Expressions come as little twitches in shifting angles. Time and revelation have begun to erode the thing. Another piece cracks away as she listens to Sam. Empathy rushes through the opening, creasing her brow, pulling down the corners of her mouth. Why do people do this? What is the benefit of deciding a child's fate and torturing them when they can't fit themselves into the false mold? How many more people have stories like her own, like her siblings'?
There is one markedly different part, and Vanya asks in what might be a squak if her voice weren't so low, "demon blood?" The question is out before she can stop it. Sam gives the most relatable shrug - uncomfortable, yet resigned - and she feels the same as him all over again. Her arms drop to her sides.
She adds, so as not to raise questions that she might be judging him, mouth quirked at the sides in a very small smile she cannot explain, "your family thought about killing you, too, huh?"
Suddenly, she doesn't want to have this conversation outside, anymore. It's cold and she thinks she can still feel the far away ripples of the destructive energy she's converted. She jerks her head toward the place and says, "come on. I think I owe you at least a coffee."