Rakitin would have expected the murderer's hands to feel lifeless as stone, as if the blood staining it were an agent to corrode the flesh into a physical reflection of inner inhumanity. Instead, it felt perfectly ordinary. His skin was too numb to crawl.
"Not you," Polya said softly to the bronze object in his hand, "except for the sense that every strain is the same sickness."
A compass. Rather beautiful. What he had taken for part of the bird design was in fact stylized flames. A firebird. One of the four beasts in the stars. Polya had always liked the turtle best.
"Her name was Kira." He turned the compass in his hands. "She was young, and she was lost. My sister. Someone like you found her."
The metal gleamed.
"I found the evidence that convicted him. I never saw his face. It was over quickly."
The light made its edges glow as if there were fire hidden behind them.
"He's probably dead. I don't know."
Rakitin clicked the lid shut with a sound like a cricket's cry.
He set it back in Deimos's hand, the unneccesary gun at his side like a friend. The bird nested amid the thematically appropriate scars.
"It doesn't really matter, does it?"
Polya met Deimos's eyes without anger.
"It is an insult to suggest that simple death could atone for your crimes."
Less than an empty gesture.
"Tell me," Rakitin said suddenly. "I always wondered. While they're bleeding, do you imagine that someone is going to measure the wounds to find the width of the knife? Or that someone's going to bag and label the bits you scatter?"
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2008-01-15 08:32 am (UTC)"Not you," Polya said softly to the bronze object in his hand, "except for the sense that every strain is the same sickness."
A compass. Rather beautiful. What he had taken for part of the bird design was in fact stylized flames. A firebird. One of the four beasts in the stars. Polya had always liked the turtle best.
"Her name was Kira." He turned the compass in his hands. "She was young, and she was lost. My sister. Someone like you found her."
The metal gleamed.
"I found the evidence that convicted him. I never saw his face. It was over quickly."
The light made its edges glow as if there were fire hidden behind them.
"He's probably dead. I don't know."
Rakitin clicked the lid shut with a sound like a cricket's cry.
He set it back in Deimos's hand, the unneccesary gun at his side like a friend. The bird nested amid the thematically appropriate scars.
"It doesn't really matter, does it?"
Polya met Deimos's eyes without anger.
"It is an insult to suggest that simple death could atone for your crimes."
Less than an empty gesture.
"Tell me," Rakitin said suddenly. "I always wondered. While they're bleeding, do you imagine that someone is going to measure the wounds to find the width of the knife? Or that someone's going to bag and label the bits you scatter?"