#helincarnate

“Tomato, potato, legato, staccato.”

“You were just doing your job. Surrendering a soul so readily would have been questionable at best. I can’t fault you for taking your job seriously.”

“You assume I have some say over his actions. He is free to do as he pleases.”

“Your crazy is showing again, lady.”

“… Why wouldn’t we be? You didn’t kill me.”

Some days just weren’t worth getting out of bed for.

Pressing the soft pads of her finger and thumb against the bridge of her nose in a futile attempt to curtail the ache that had already begun to bloom behind her left eye, but seconds away from evolving into a sharp, throbbing pain that would, in the long run, prove impossible to suppress, Ciara Murray braced her other hand against the wall, the brick biting into her palm as she struggled to concentrate through the steady, harsh stream of discomfort, her heart heavy with despair - a familiar but unwelcome sensation, damnably evasive and unavoidable but devastating all the same, for this uncomfortable sensation marked the propinquity of death. 

For a bean sidhe, it was common - an obligatory part of the job description at any rate, considerably significant in her line of work - to sense the presence of death and the merciless, powerful sway it held over all creatures. And despite their determination and technological advances, the humans hadn’t succeeded in completely purging her of any connection to the Morrigan and her past life - and they’d tried. For years, they’d worked hard and tirelessly to pilfer powers they’d considered useful and intriguing, aiming to affix them to individuals of their choosing in order to gain full mastery over them. But sensing death, and thus responding to it ... They couldn’t take that from her - although at times, she wished they had. If not for this unignorable skill, she might have found another, no less meaningful, way of life. Being one of several omens of death simply didn’t carry the weight of reverence it once had. 

But the burden of responsibility that continuously and unfailingly fell to her and her fellow banshees was about the same. 

Given the nature of the inexorable, demoniac experiments Project Stratox had conducted in the name of science and some misguided attempt at human self-preservation, however, not every banshee felt compelled to perform the duties attached to her former life. Some simply didn’t possess any sort of inclination or power to do as the Morrigan had once demanded. Even so, Ciara would have gladly traded this power for any other if it meant evading the lure of death and its cold, merciless presence, one which sent a chill crawling down her spine. A chill that refused to abate until her stubbornness finally relented and she slowly, cautiously trudged in the direction her wailing instincts were presently, inexorably urging her toward, using the wall as support as the pain intensified, a substitute for the wail the humans’ cruel, greedy actions had managed to appropriate. 

No relief, just a crushing need to act before it became unbearable.

And then -

- Taking the corner at a staggering, sluggish pace, squinting charcoal gray eyes at the slender, notable - and striking - silhouette of the only woman within the vicinity, all thoughts and movements came to a screeching halt as soon as she realized that the invisible trail she’d been instinctively following ended with her, this bombshell of a woman with a powerful presence.