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"I hate them, you know."
Caltra stilled, turning to frown at the smaller, slimmer Cheelin leaning on the other side of the table, the tools of his trade laid out before him, and a chitterling's body between them. Sopran looked up, met his gaze with calm fury, his hands as relaxed and controlled as ever as he peeled back the fur from her chest.
"Who?" he asked, though he knew, a little. Who did they all hate, to one degree or another? There was no-one here who did not know the answer.
"The breakers," Sopran answered, slicing smoothly through the skin of her chest, negotiating skillfully over the shattered ribs. "The ones who do this. I hate them, Caltra. I always have. But seeing this ..." His hands went still, for the barest of seconds, his black eyes losing hatred for a moment to shine in fathomless sadness. "How do they do this? How can they bear it? What are they, Caltra, to be able to do this?" His voice hummed with anguish, and genuine bafflement. Sopran had never understood. Not once. For all his furies, for all the violence leashed in that small frame, the Examiner had never once understood the urge to break another Cheelin.
It was a confusion Caltra wished he shared. In the deepest levels of his heart, he wished he did not know the answer to Sopran's question. He wished he could hate as Sopran hated, coolly and cleanly, untainted by black understanding.
What are they? No more than us, my partner, my love. Cheelin, one and all. And in the morning, I could do as they have done, if I had to. I could break as they have broken. I could break you between my hands, leave for your colleagues to examine, forget everything we have meant to each other, forget the family and the duty we have built between us, all in a moment, if I strayed to deep and let understanding inch higher than my hatred, my disgust. I could do that to you, my love. I could do it to Lii, to Comfra, to any of you. It is only a step away, and only hatred to hold the line. Is hatred strong enough? I wish I knew.
But he could say none of that. Not to Sopran, innocent in hatred, dark eyes drowned in death and sympathy, hand calm over the victim's body. Not to Lii, waiting at home, smiling for him while she held their chitterling aloft, wise beyond measure but wholly untainted. Not to any of them. No-one said it. No-one mentioned the line they trod, to do what they did, to see what they saw and understand it enough to stop it.
Cheelin life was sacred. A hand raised to harm ... should not even been dreamt of, not even considered. Violence was a cleansing wave, a maker of things, not a destroyer. It was the deepest tenet, the oldest law. And it didn't matter in the slightest.
The breakers lived. They destroyed. And any Cheelin in the morning might wake up and become one, and the laws of the mind did nothing to stop it. Caltra knew it. His colleagues knew it. They knew it, and clutched their hatred tight against it, against the final step across the line. Clutched their hatred tight, and walked inside the minds of the breakers, followed in their bloodied footsteps until they knew where they would lead, and stopped them in their tracks. And hoped, through it all, that the hatred would be enough to save them, and let them come back.
He looked up, meeting Sopran's gaze, the clean fury of it, and shook his head gently.
"I don't know what they are, Sopran," he lied calmly. "I only know it's my job to stop them. My duty and my honour." And my shame, for how I can, but you need never know that, my love.
Sopran looked at him for a long moment, nodding in the silence, and smiled a smile full of love and pride. "And there is no-one better for the job," he confirmed, passion and belief in every line of him, his inner hands clenched with it, and Caltra felt them as if they pressed around his heart.
Oh Sopran. How I wish that wasn't true, my love. How I wish it wasn't true.
Caltra stilled, turning to frown at the smaller, slimmer Cheelin leaning on the other side of the table, the tools of his trade laid out before him, and a chitterling's body between them. Sopran looked up, met his gaze with calm fury, his hands as relaxed and controlled as ever as he peeled back the fur from her chest.
"Who?" he asked, though he knew, a little. Who did they all hate, to one degree or another? There was no-one here who did not know the answer.
"The breakers," Sopran answered, slicing smoothly through the skin of her chest, negotiating skillfully over the shattered ribs. "The ones who do this. I hate them, Caltra. I always have. But seeing this ..." His hands went still, for the barest of seconds, his black eyes losing hatred for a moment to shine in fathomless sadness. "How do they do this? How can they bear it? What are they, Caltra, to be able to do this?" His voice hummed with anguish, and genuine bafflement. Sopran had never understood. Not once. For all his furies, for all the violence leashed in that small frame, the Examiner had never once understood the urge to break another Cheelin.
It was a confusion Caltra wished he shared. In the deepest levels of his heart, he wished he did not know the answer to Sopran's question. He wished he could hate as Sopran hated, coolly and cleanly, untainted by black understanding.
What are they? No more than us, my partner, my love. Cheelin, one and all. And in the morning, I could do as they have done, if I had to. I could break as they have broken. I could break you between my hands, leave for your colleagues to examine, forget everything we have meant to each other, forget the family and the duty we have built between us, all in a moment, if I strayed to deep and let understanding inch higher than my hatred, my disgust. I could do that to you, my love. I could do it to Lii, to Comfra, to any of you. It is only a step away, and only hatred to hold the line. Is hatred strong enough? I wish I knew.
But he could say none of that. Not to Sopran, innocent in hatred, dark eyes drowned in death and sympathy, hand calm over the victim's body. Not to Lii, waiting at home, smiling for him while she held their chitterling aloft, wise beyond measure but wholly untainted. Not to any of them. No-one said it. No-one mentioned the line they trod, to do what they did, to see what they saw and understand it enough to stop it.
Cheelin life was sacred. A hand raised to harm ... should not even been dreamt of, not even considered. Violence was a cleansing wave, a maker of things, not a destroyer. It was the deepest tenet, the oldest law. And it didn't matter in the slightest.
The breakers lived. They destroyed. And any Cheelin in the morning might wake up and become one, and the laws of the mind did nothing to stop it. Caltra knew it. His colleagues knew it. They knew it, and clutched their hatred tight against it, against the final step across the line. Clutched their hatred tight, and walked inside the minds of the breakers, followed in their bloodied footsteps until they knew where they would lead, and stopped them in their tracks. And hoped, through it all, that the hatred would be enough to save them, and let them come back.
He looked up, meeting Sopran's gaze, the clean fury of it, and shook his head gently.
"I don't know what they are, Sopran," he lied calmly. "I only know it's my job to stop them. My duty and my honour." And my shame, for how I can, but you need never know that, my love.
Sopran looked at him for a long moment, nodding in the silence, and smiled a smile full of love and pride. "And there is no-one better for the job," he confirmed, passion and belief in every line of him, his inner hands clenched with it, and Caltra felt them as if they pressed around his heart.
Oh Sopran. How I wish that wasn't true, my love. How I wish it wasn't true.
