Ciphered Holos: Aran

Disappointment was a bitter feeling to swallow.  And it gnawed the same way as guilt but without the possibility of resolution; it ate and it settled in the gut and clenched the throat.  And it was hard to even understand - but then there were clear moments of comprehension, clear moments where recriminations were flung at herself.  She had been bitter, had been petty.  For little reason other than pricked vanity and pride.  It had been humiliating to be found so lacking, that feeling coupled with the old and awoken feeling of failure.

Regression.  Disappointing Ark, the Pureblood who had become a mentor.  An ally.  An inspiration for climbing to better, new heights; to aspire to grow to.

A petty drunkard wasting away, a sore and blight with no purpose or worthwhile accomplishments.  That'd been what she'd been when Ark had found her - someone courting self-destruction who had found no purpose, no passion.  Someone with no dreams left, holding broken shards in bloodied hands.  Someone with no future, bleakly facing death and no longer fighting for a place in the galaxy.  And she'd regressed, reverted back to that drunkard in a moment of concern; harshly judging Ark and his motives against the mistaken view of someone who'd seen him as not only an obstacle but a rallying point for destruction.

Her apology had been heartfelt, an almost bleak apology as the tone Ark had spoken to her in had set in.  She remembered the people who had spoken to her in that tone, the way they'd all eventually thrown their hands up when she hadn't grown more wise, more controlled, more reserved.  She remembered the first time Ark had spoken to her that way, when he'd rescinded his offer of solace and protection, pulled his hand back because she had been nothing but a disappointment.

And the dangerous edge in his voice, the growl.  A warning, the reminder that although he had been kind he had been kind purely on his whim.  A suddenly brutal reminder that crossing him would have consequences, the same way her rash and foolish actions trying to stop him from taking Sverdas had resulted in the death of her pet.  The knowledge that she had hit a line, offended him, insulted him.

Ark had been kind.  Accepting.  Understanding.  Encouraging.  Inspiring.  Protective.

He had given her shelter and resources and a place to study and work, as close to a home as she was likely to ever find again.  The space to carve out her own place, find her footing.  Become what she had the potential to become.  And she'd risked it in a stupid and petty moment.

But how to show Ark she'd meant her apology?  Actions, he said.  Prove it, he demanded.  But how?  Offering objects wouldn't prove anything; placating gifts would be worthless to Ark because they were things, not actions.  Things could be given without learning the lessons required - she knew that from her own past.  Gifts were merely motions, meaningless objects that carried nothing in their acquisition other than the implication of time.

Time wasn't enough.  Sinking time into something didn't show she'd really moved past the drunkard wasting away on a worthless moon. 

Actions.

Her mind wandered, settling with every centering breath.  She was in the little tucked ruins she had found when getting lost, legs folded under her as she'd dropped into a meditative seat.

The doubt and self-recrimination were powerful feelings - but they weakened her.  They weren't helpful; they were the sort of dark emotions that crippled a person and destroyed the possibility of their use in furthering her connections to the darkside.  She had to accept them though and use them to be stronger, use them to strengthen both her resolve and her dedication.  Reject the weakness they invited and turn them around.  She could - would - do it.  She had to be more than she'd been a scant year ago.

How to prove it.

She let out a breath.

How to show she'd moved on.

Actions.

Doubt and recriminations and disappointment she turned to anger, let them fester.  Loathing for herself began, for the weaknesses she clung to.  She focused on those feelings, nurturing them the same way she'd once called up peace.

These were useful emotions, feelings that would drive her onwards and upwards and help her climb to new heights.  These she could turn and spur herself with, could settle her mind in to and relax finally.  Now she could call up the 'gift' Ark had given her, the chaotic images she could barely grasp, the gaping wounds and clawing panic and horrible pain and sudden, inescapable death and destruction.  She pulled it up much the same way she'd have wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, letting it rise up and enfold her thoughts.

The images pulled up the shattered and grasping memories of her first meeting with Xekseko and Venrirr, the itching and scraping of those horrific eyes.  The unintelligible and incomprehensible, destabilizing agony.  She still could not make sense of it all - the colors, the shapes, it had been beyond her comprehension.  The jokes about colors had been nothing compared to the reality and inability to understand.  Paired with the gift from Ark, the swirls of everything he had placed in her mind, she felt a slick sheen of sweat rise.

And yet she continued, feeling it help her find a new avenue of connection and understanding towards the darkside.  She turned her mind and thoughts to the pure feelings of it, a sigh of breath as she gave herself over to it.