Played by [ PM] Posts: N/A — Threads:
| |
The sunrise seems like less as it's filtered through his feathers like noontime between the thick blue, sea. All the colors of the sky seems darker when she looks at them though his feathers when he snaps them out and folds them back. His wings could be a dread kaleidoscope and it seems that they might coo out words like mockingbirds sing out a mockery of birdsong.
Come and see. The black tips of his wings seem to say as they rub together in the eve of winter breeze. See the bright glory of death. They summon her just as much as they push her back, back, back. Her chain rattles out a tolling chime her muscles quiver to run, run, run.
But he is no dragon as dark as the night-sky and there are no flames licking like sacrifice against the black lips edging his smile. Isra reminds herself he is just a man, a stallion, an interloper in her starlit church of buried bones. She remembers the coldness of Raymond, the blood-lust of kings and the rage of jailers who could not kill the stories of her heart and knows that he is perhaps nothing to fear enough to flee.
It's those stories that linger in her voice, precious and glittering and cold like gemstones. “The day is always more lovey when is arrives on the edges of blackness and star-shine. There must be dark to know that light even exists.” When she thinks of blackness she thinks of his wings, of his skin that looks darker for the way it's edged in golden glow.
The silence is almost unwelcome as it descends on them. She imagines this stallion's silence is as terrible as that thick weight that overtook the forest when the dragon first took to the skies, when the first flame sucked all the sound from the air and began to consume and consume and consume.
She wonders what it is that his silence consumes, what it hides, what it promises. Perhaps it's because she wonders that his voice feels like a lash against her skin when he breaks that heavy, heady silence between them again. He smile looks like nothing to her, nothing more than more darkness that she clears from her vision when she blinks and follows his gaze out to the devastation.
“A dragon burned it.” There's more to be said. More lingers in the way she drags out the syllables of dra-gon. But she still remembers the rage of Raymond when she shared her story, remembers the way she watched a devil rise from the banked fires of his gaze.
This is a story Isra has learned not to tell.
The night needs no more rage. She imagines that rage and hate might be even more hideous is the light of the sunrise.
* * * * *
so high that we forget and fall, fall, fall
@Albrecht
|
|
07-17-2018, 10:16 PM
|
