Another lesson with the elder; she dares not deviate this close, lest he foul her up sheer minutes from salvation. She bears his lesson with stoic detachment. So close. She ignores him, his sounds, his actions, the way his hands caress her tendrils as they had that first day, in front of everyone. As she gathers her things, he speaks:
“I know about the shuttle.” She doesn’t say anything, and does not look at him. “You won’t be on it, of course.” She feels him moving toward her and Rassa will hate herself for years for the way he backs her into the corner, literally trapping her, this frail old man empowered with her family’s trust and faith. One hand goes to her tendrils, the other to her neck. “The warrior will come—I felt it in the webbing of your tendrils, the nets like the nets here in our home. No matter where you go, your home—your destiny, Rassa—is here.” His hand tightens on her throat; her hand tightens likewise.
He stiffens, and his eyes go wide as he cannot close his fingers.
“No,” Rassa says. “My destiny... isn’t here, at your hands. Never. Never again.” She steps free of his grasp, and he cannot follow. He can barely breathe; she feels his struggle. Perhaps this shock will kill him.
“I’m leaving,” she says. “I’m leaving you, and Mikkia, and your congregation. You’re never touching me again. When I find the warrior, it won’t be for you.” She shoves him, and does not stay to see whether he crushes his head against the floor.
Rassa runs, but she runs toward freedom.
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