There are moments where Orin wishes she could shed her training. Moments where it feels too invasive, incisive, excising. And all of it clinical. But there is an unspoken intimacy that goes beyond physical nearness. Speaking of it would only shatter it. Better to continue excavating, mutual destruction hanging over their heads like a guillotine.Â
In the end, she is a Truthsayer, and it is instinctual to listen and watch for all of the little tells. The subtle inflections in the voice, shifting even a quarter of an octave. The dilation of pupils, or the shifting of minute muscles in the face.Â
None of that is present. He speaks the truth. She almost wishes he had lied.
ââBefore you can kill the monster, you have to say its name,ââ she whispers, some ancient proverb millions of years old ringing through her head. She doesnât say it to him directly; it seeps from her throat like liquid smoke, pooling between their feet.Â
Without waiting for him to say anything she takes one step away from him unclasps the robe from her shoulders, lets it fall in a dark puddle around her ankles. Her shoulders and arms are bare, a soft tan shade that in this light looks almost blue. Stark against her skin is the tattoo that winds its way from the inside of her forearm, around her wiry bicep, curling to rest over the cap of her shoulder. A simple design; when she shifts her muscles the slightest bit it looks as if the snake were gliding.Â
She watches him with wary, hooded eyes, expression almost defiant. This is not a mark she often bares.Â
Before you can kill the monster, you have to say its name. The axiom makes him restless for just a moment. A bitter thing like a snarling of teeth and acidic taste swirl in the back of his mind, kicked up by the words. Theyâll never have his name. Theyâll never touch him. Heâs sure of that.Â
And yet she said it, and in some ways it feels prophetic. It makes his skin crawl.Â
Heâs struck from his thoughts as she steps away suddenly. He looks up to see her unclasp her robe, watches it fall to the floor, watches the room bathe her skin in light. Laughter escapes him-- but a quiet kind, barely heard, like a fanatic seeing his god for the first time.
He drinks her in for a few moments, not caring to look for the object of interest-- her tattoo-- just yet. He could be blind to the world for this moment, and heâs drained of his usual quips, simply smiling. Finally his eyes shift to the snake, noting each scale, the way it curves over her muscles, how it stakes a claim over her arm.Â
âWhy a snake?â And this time he asks it with sincerity. The usual edge has left his voice, him too dropping a robe, and all that remains is him.