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The devil and the moonlight are gone when she finishes her morbid task. All her tears are gone, turned to sand and a freedom that bursts inside her belly like a cloud. The stars in the sky are as faded as she feels, nothing more than pin-pricks of shimmer fighting against the pale pinks and purples of the sunrise. Isra is content, more content that she has ever felt, to just stand still, beneath the ghost husks of pines and watch the red of the sun crest over the horizon.
It's a baptism of day and she feels as gold, gold, gold as she once did her her old slave skin. In the dawn-glow even her chain looks lovely, like amber, as it reflects the light onto the blackened rock face (where the vegetation has burned and blown away and left only stone to see). Even her faint ocean-smell is swallowed up by the crisp chill air and the particles of ash and bone that coat her like a gritty, worn silk.
The day promises to be full of stories and legends. Isra feels them reincarnated on her lips with the day. For the first time she wonders if she might be part of them, that she might play any role that lives when the tale comes to a close.
Isra is not as startled as she should be when he lands on that last golden hoof and glitters like the night sky if all the stars were edged in gold-leaf.
And oh how he looks like a hawk-- black enough to swallow up that speck of red, golden sun that is only just starting to devour the night. His feathers whisper in the air and she thinks, they sing like freedom, like a wind, like a dream. She thinks in words and letters, like the pages between the few leather bound books she's been lucky enough to see.
The soft look of those feathers and how they glow like something holy in the low, golden light makes her think this is no dragon come down from the sky to eat up the world around her.
“No.” Her voice is reed thin, as fragile and swaying as that stalk before the wind forced away, away, away when he landed. The mountain air seems to bow before him and only her horn remains steady and black as obsidian. Even her chain jingles when he moves closer and betrays the tender, quivering of her dark, sea-touched skin.
“There is only me.” Isra whispers even as she leans back away from the heady dark glow of him. There are not enough words in her head to describe him, to bring his form to life with syllables when even her eyes cannot fathom the way he seems to be made from the darkest of night and edged in sunrises.
And it's not until she says the words that she thinks, with a flicker of fear behind the awe, alone is sometimes a very dangerous thing to be.
* * * * *
run through the heat of the sun
@Albrecht
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07-07-2018, 08:29 PM
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