Ode to 11010201 (2016-08-03)

The thing is, he looks like her sister. Obviously. Her sister is his mother,of course he would look like her sister.

Well, maybe not obviously–he could have taken more after his father–but the point still stands. He looks like her sister.

It’s not heartbreaking or anything like that. She can look at him and not feel grief or guilt or anything negative. Just growing affection for him and a fond nostalgia for Iris. But it’s odd, is all, uncanny.

Because Iris and R, for all that they were sisters, did not look similar to each other at all. Iris took after their mother, R after their father; their other two sisters were mixtures of their parents, but she and Iris had been opposite ends of the spectrum appearance wise.

Personality wise, too, though that has hardly any relevance almost a decade after Iris’ death.

They didn’t look the same, but growing up they had been… complementary. A matched set, despite their differences.

He looks like her sister, and because of that, it’s like they’re a matched set, too.

R gets to her apartment, tired and achey and hollowed out. Her current roommate is out–odd hours are to be expected from a vampire delivery bicyclist–which means she doesn’t feel at all embarrassed when she face plants into the sofa and groans long and low.

A twisting, jabbing gesture rips the magic from her body and gives it a form of its own–a leopard, to be exact–which immediately tries to curl on top of her as if it were actually a house cat and not a manifestation of her magic which weighs nearly twice as much as she does. She avoids being crushed, barely, and enjoys the full body vibrations of a giant cat purring.

“Today was awful,” she says to her magic, petting between velvety ears, “Just awful,” she repeats.

The problem with suddenly being the most powerful magician in the coven is that she doesn’t have any of the training or experiences to back it up. Which leads to situations where, instead of using magic, she’ll try to go the usual route which somehow ends with her spending two hours in some stranger’s pantry while rival magicians try to extract company secrets from her personal assistant.

Of course, Patrick is a lot more than just her PA–he’s one of the oldest members of the coven and, also, one of the company founders–but they knew how to inflict pain on a vampire and they knew how to make it stick.

“He’s going to take some days off, he really does deserve them” she continues, before her throat gets all choked up and her cheeks hot. She starts to cry.

Her magic grumbles when she clings to it, pressing tears into its fur, but otherwise doesn’t protest.

“It’s my fault,” she sobs, “it’s all my fault.”

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