07-24-2018, 08:30 PM
✶✶✶
The light of day was blinding to Delila, and her void black eyes were disturbing the Costa Del Sol tourists, so the man who called himself her grandfather purchased her a pair of tinted aviator sunglasses. She dressed casually, in a tank-top and shorts, her abdomen wound seemingly healed. The man beside her smiles genially at anyone who looked their way, but it did not seem to matter.
The flock of tourists gave Delila a wide berth. An aura of dread seemed to follow her, triggering some evolutionary aversion among the throngs of people.
Delila fed from them all.
She fed on their happiness, their hope, their love. She fed on their life force, draining it from the air around her, but she was not sated. She could feel the souls of the passersby, could see them shining like bright white lights in their chests. She would find herself drifting towards them, and feel the sharp tug on her elbow from the man who called himself her grandfather.
He kept up a steady stream of conversation, but Delila was not listening.
“You mother and I come from two universe, both alike and yet unlike,” the man said, gripping Delila’s arm tightly. “They are bound together on a subatomic level by a single substance that creates a net passing between the universes. In my universe, we called this substance the Force. In your mother’s world, they called it Magic.”
He did not let go of Delila’s arm even as he felt her relax. He was nervous still, jumpy even, watching Delila’s head swivel to follow every passing being.
“I’m hungry,” Delila repeated, smiling at a very uncomfortable half-orc who was avoiding her gaze. The man sighed.
“You will not be hungry for long,” he said. He pulled Delila off the busy street and onto a very tall outdoor escalator. Delila grinned and leaned over the railing, looking for all the world like a young woman excited to see a city teeming with life.
The man frowned thoughtfully.
“Delila,” he said with hesitation in his voice. “Have you ever TRIED to eat food?”
✶✶✶
Delila and the man who called himself her grandfather sat beneath a parasol on a deck of a restaurant in Costa Del Sol, eating ice cream cones. The man kept a watchful eye on Delila as the half-dementor smiled at tourists and made them uncomfortable, her chocolate ice cream cone melting onto her hand.
“How is it?” the man asked.
“Cold,” Delila said after a moment, remembering to lick the ice cream again. “Like me.”
The man nodded; he was pretty sure Delila had no taste buds. He also thought she might be blind, despite her complaints about the brightness of the sun . The ice cream seemed to relax her, or at least distract her somewhat.
“Everyone says my mother was evil,” Delila said suddenly, staring at her desert.
The man raised his eyebrows; he didn’t think Delila understood concepts such as morality, or even social stigma.
“How does that make you feel?” the man asked curiously.
The black eyed girl did not respond, and the man wondered if she felt anything at all.
“The word ‘evil’ gets thrown around a lot, mostly as an accusation” the man continued, measuring his words. “It is often another way of saying different, or foreign. There are those that say evil is in ends not in the means, and those that say evil is in the means not the ends. The Dark Side is often called evil, as are Dark Magics, though this is not always so. However, I think in the case of Bellatrix Lestrange there can be no argument that she was evil. Her means, and her attempted ends, violate those laws of morality that are held most sacred by society, even across universes.”
Delila seemed introspective. “That’s what I thought,” the girl said, seeming to have lost interest in her ice cream. She was eyeing a little boy on the boardwalk several stories below them.
“Are you evil, Delila?” The man asked, leaning forward.
Delile shrugged, and did not take her bizarre eyes off the boy on the boardwalk. “I’m hungry,” she repeated.
The man nodded in understanding. “You have your father’s eyes,” he said after a moment. “But you have your mother’s face. Do you feel nothing but your father’s hunger?”
Delila did not have a quick answer, but she discarded her ice cream. “It hurts,” she confessed eventually. “The hunger gnaws. The pain is very strong, but beneath the pain, I can feel something. I can taste my fear.”
The man licked his ice cream pensively. “Fear I can work with. Fear leads to anger. You do seem to have some basic sense of self-preservation, even if I had to pin you to wall to bring it out. Do you know how I found you?”
Delila was not listening. “I’m hungry,” she said again, with an air of wistful impatience.
The man sighed, and worried about customs.
✶✶✶
The light of day was blinding to Delila, and her void black eyes were disturbing the Costa Del Sol tourists, so the man who called himself her grandfather purchased her a pair of tinted aviator sunglasses. She dressed casually, in a tank-top and shorts, her abdomen wound seemingly healed. The man beside her smiles genially at anyone who looked their way, but it did not seem to matter.
The flock of tourists gave Delila a wide berth. An aura of dread seemed to follow her, triggering some evolutionary aversion among the throngs of people.
Delila fed from them all.
She fed on their happiness, their hope, their love. She fed on their life force, draining it from the air around her, but she was not sated. She could feel the souls of the passersby, could see them shining like bright white lights in their chests. She would find herself drifting towards them, and feel the sharp tug on her elbow from the man who called himself her grandfather.
He kept up a steady stream of conversation, but Delila was not listening.
“You mother and I come from two universe, both alike and yet unlike,” the man said, gripping Delila’s arm tightly. “They are bound together on a subatomic level by a single substance that creates a net passing between the universes. In my universe, we called this substance the Force. In your mother’s world, they called it Magic.”
He did not let go of Delila’s arm even as he felt her relax. He was nervous still, jumpy even, watching Delila’s head swivel to follow every passing being.
“I’m hungry,” Delila repeated, smiling at a very uncomfortable half-orc who was avoiding her gaze. The man sighed.
“You will not be hungry for long,” he said. He pulled Delila off the busy street and onto a very tall outdoor escalator. Delila grinned and leaned over the railing, looking for all the world like a young woman excited to see a city teeming with life.
The man frowned thoughtfully.
“Delila,” he said with hesitation in his voice. “Have you ever TRIED to eat food?”
✶✶✶
Delila and the man who called himself her grandfather sat beneath a parasol on a deck of a restaurant in Costa Del Sol, eating ice cream cones. The man kept a watchful eye on Delila as the half-dementor smiled at tourists and made them uncomfortable, her chocolate ice cream cone melting onto her hand.
“How is it?” the man asked.
“Cold,” Delila said after a moment, remembering to lick the ice cream again. “Like me.”
The man nodded; he was pretty sure Delila had no taste buds. He also thought she might be blind, despite her complaints about the brightness of the sun . The ice cream seemed to relax her, or at least distract her somewhat.
“Everyone says my mother was evil,” Delila said suddenly, staring at her desert.
The man raised his eyebrows; he didn’t think Delila understood concepts such as morality, or even social stigma.
“How does that make you feel?” the man asked curiously.
The black eyed girl did not respond, and the man wondered if she felt anything at all.
“The word ‘evil’ gets thrown around a lot, mostly as an accusation” the man continued, measuring his words. “It is often another way of saying different, or foreign. There are those that say evil is in ends not in the means, and those that say evil is in the means not the ends. The Dark Side is often called evil, as are Dark Magics, though this is not always so. However, I think in the case of Bellatrix Lestrange there can be no argument that she was evil. Her means, and her attempted ends, violate those laws of morality that are held most sacred by society, even across universes.”
Delila seemed introspective. “That’s what I thought,” the girl said, seeming to have lost interest in her ice cream. She was eyeing a little boy on the boardwalk several stories below them.
“Are you evil, Delila?” The man asked, leaning forward.
Delile shrugged, and did not take her bizarre eyes off the boy on the boardwalk. “I’m hungry,” she repeated.
The man nodded in understanding. “You have your father’s eyes,” he said after a moment. “But you have your mother’s face. Do you feel nothing but your father’s hunger?”
Delila did not have a quick answer, but she discarded her ice cream. “It hurts,” she confessed eventually. “The hunger gnaws. The pain is very strong, but beneath the pain, I can feel something. I can taste my fear.”
The man licked his ice cream pensively. “Fear I can work with. Fear leads to anger. You do seem to have some basic sense of self-preservation, even if I had to pin you to wall to bring it out. Do you know how I found you?”
Delila was not listening. “I’m hungry,” she said again, with an air of wistful impatience.
The man sighed, and worried about customs.
✶✶✶