When I was fourteen, an Angel told me to pick up my Gran's big carving knife, and how to gut the thing that ate my Ma.
Don't suppose I ever mistook it for friendly, exactly. You couldn't smell it and think that, or hear its voice. But it chose me. I used to think it chose me for a good thing.
"The Ceaseless Watcher. The Eye." She opens a hand, palm up. "In, hm, my world, fear is power, and the things we fear give shape to powers of their own -- powers that feed fear and feed on fear the more they become what they are.
"The Eye is the fear of being seen. Secrets revealed, privacy peeled away, every little shame clear before the world."
She tries to think of it, and it feels like trying to make three gears turn together in her brain; the teeth keep locking up. The exposure of it, the shame, that was the white hell all through. But being seen - no. Even the angel, looking at her, was better than most of the time, just being in the white alone, left looking at the horrid smudge of herself.
"I killed a lot of things I was afraid of. Some of 'em seemed real surprised about it."
Not Sinethella, though. Sinethella let her, she thinks. She wonders what's made her think of that now.
"Some things, they were just...there. Old black drowning death since before men even came to the American continent, reaching up sometimes to snare anything too close. Some things, they were killin' folk because they didn't want to be thought on. Our fear was like earthquakes -"
She chokes up, on sudden vertigo and nausea more than fear. "Anyway, nevermind them," she corrects herself, primly.
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[Her tone isn't gentle, but it is mild. She falls silent for a long moment, watching Dancy.]
What made you want to talk to me about this, Dancy?
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You asked, I suppose. Folk don't usually pay me much mind.
Or if they do, they don't waste it talking so much.
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Her eyes are, in fact, witch's eyes.]
Your experience isn't mine, but it could easily be a story from my world. You've clearly been touched by ... unfriendly powers.
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[This isn't a cynical advertisement of her bitterness. It's a real question, quiet and sad and forlorn.]
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[Gertrude's answer is simple, almost rueful. She looks up at Dancy.]
Anyone who thinks otherwise has failed a profound test of character.
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Don't suppose I ever mistook it for friendly, exactly. You couldn't smell it and think that, or hear its voice. But it chose me. I used to think it chose me for a good thing.
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I was twice that age when I sold my soul to the Watcher. It was revenge, for me, too.
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Gertrude says The Watcher like Dancy says The Book.
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"The Eye is the fear of being seen. Secrets revealed, privacy peeled away, every little shame clear before the world."
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"I killed a lot of things I was afraid of. Some of 'em seemed real surprised about it."
Not Sinethella, though. Sinethella let her, she thinks. She wonders what's made her think of that now.
"Some things, they were just...there. Old black drowning death since before men even came to the American continent, reaching up sometimes to snare anything too close. Some things, they were killin' folk because they didn't want to be thought on. Our fear was like earthquakes -"
She chokes up, on sudden vertigo and nausea more than fear. "Anyway, nevermind them," she corrects herself, primly.
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"But I usually preferred not to let them see I was afraid. Pride, and all."