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la soledad es un tipo de veneno;
IP: 90.252.163.244
Posted on December 12, 2017 at 03:54:10 AM by sperantia

Sperantia
la soledad es un tipo de veneno

No. Don’t apologise.

Sperantia couldn’t stand to hear an apology. Not now. Not from her. Not in that morose little whisper, like she meant it. Like she cared.

In a move which was not unlike what he may have done in the situation, Mallos’ familiar rolled her eyes and flopped down on the sofa, burying her face in the black leather arm. What right did the Warbird have to try and mend burned bridges? To offer reassurance? To be anything other than the two-dimensional, dastardly villain Sperantia had built her up to be - preferred her to be. Croe was easier to hate as a villain. Easier to dismiss, to feel a sense of superiority over. No matter what Sperantia had done, or not done – or been, or not been, when she was needed most – she could still feel a sense of righteousness knowing that she was not irreversibly evil. She had not realistically threatened to bring about an end to his entire world. Compared to Croe, Sperantia was reasonable. Perfectly reasonable, taking a break in a relationship because your fairy was secretly dating a supervillain.

When she thought about it that way, it was easier to dismiss the plaguing doubt about who’d hurt Mallos more. And anyway, what did he know about what was good for him? He’d picked the Warbird to settle down with.

If Croe was sorry for what she did, then it was feasible that everything Sperantia knew about Mallos and had selectively forgotten, everything she’d seen and chosen to ignore… The nagging facts that he really was a good judge of character and employed a team of devoted ex-criminals to prove it, that he’d put his future on the line for this woman and stuck by her without deviating, that he was happier for it… If Croe could be decent, then that could all be…

A beam of light passed over Sperantia’s head where it had previously been in shadow. Croe must have pulled the curtain back. Sperantia rolled her eyes again and turned her face away, staring at the black leather back of the sofa. The sunlight reflected off of it, turning the sleek black a blinding white.

Croe’s voice, when she spoke, was odd. It sounded as though someone had stepped on her foot and shoved something in her mouth. Her question made Sperantia pause. She sat up, twisting herself round to frown at the other woman.

Somehow, she didn’t think Croe meant dead.

“For him?” Sperantia leapt off the sofa lightly, her claws clattering against the gleaming wooden floorboards. She retracted them hastily and started to pad towards the window, frowning. What would Mallos have considered the worst place to be? “Somewhere dark, confined, where no one would – ”

Her voice caught in her throat as she stopped in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, her breath stoppered. From here, she could see exactly what Croe had seen and felt the same surge of horrified realisation. The Warbird’s clipped instruction snapped her back to reality. Sperantia placed a paw on her boot, her vision tunnelling as she focused on the palace’s angular shape. She’d never been there before, but it wasn’t exactly hard to teleport into the biggest tourist attraction in the entire fucking country – especially when you no longer gave a damn if anyone saw a black-clad woman and an oriental cat appearing out of nowhere.

They appeared in a carpark behind a cheerfully coloured bus. Sperantia wasted no time in leaping up onto a low wall and swiping a ticket poking out of the handbag of a passing woman. She jumped back down off the wall and dropped it at Croe’s feet, studying it. Entry to the majority of the Alhambra complex was largely relaxed, but admittance to the palacio de nazaires was only permitted at specific timeslots. The timeslot of this unfortunate ticket holder was in two hours’ time. Sperantia pushed the ticket across the asphalt towards Croe, indicating she take it, and turned towards the offices.

Nobody gave them any bother. Croe passed through easily with her stolen ticket and no one looked twice at just another semi-feral Spanish cat. Once they were in the generalife gardens, Sperantia jumped up onto a wall so that she was level with Croe’s chest, taking care not to put her feet in the stream of water running down a channel in the middle.

“Right.” She exhaled, looking around her while seeing nothing. The beauty of the Moroccan water garden fell on eyes blinded by a one-track search. “All I know about the place he was kept in is…” She hesitated for a second. Saying it out loud felt like a breach of his privacy.

Pull yourself together. This is necessary.

“The room was pitch black, composed of brick or stone or tilework. He was sat on the floor and chained to a wall by ankles and wrists, and had water up to about his midsection.” The words came emotionlessly, factually, as though she were reading from an encyclopaedia entry. It was the only way to get them out. Sperantia hesitated again. “I’ve never actually… been here, or heard him talk about it. I – I’ve only seen his nightmares.”

solitude is a kind of poison



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