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There are unspoken words inside her that flare up as his words rise like soot and ash and things that both drift away on a breeze and run back out to sea when the rains come. Just because she does not speak the story does not mean that a dragon does not live inside her, wings sweeping along the concave arch of her ribs with tendons and bones knitted together with ink black words. There is an entire frozen wildfire inside her bones, licking at her marrow. Her blood runs like an ichor made only of ink and blood that has long been salted by the ocean deep.
Now the fire is hers alone, living only with the magic of her words and tethered to the blooded soul that lingers in these unicorn bones. Poor broken Isra has tamed a dragon, chained it to the pages and pages of legend that are caged between mortal bones.
And oh, oh, oh....
Oh, it's a dragon that rises behind that slow, once fearful blinking of her eyes as she watches the bag drop and scatter grave-dirt. It furls its wings when he licks his lips and walks over the buried bones as if he walks across a meadow full of flowers that seem pale to his gold. Fire curls from those scaled lips when he insults the sorrow and loss that drowns her. The scar across her hips burns, burns, burns and she feels like she could bellow and swallow up the sun with the icy flames that lick at her lips.
Isra feels like a story and it's a page that dips her horn towards his dread stare and if she might pluck from his lying lips any smile that might dare to bloom on such blackness. “I know you.” She says and she imagines that her words falls from her lips like words made of smoke and ash that spiral up, up, up to from a revelation of letters above his head. “I know a million of you, black as night and full of a darkness of soul darker than that.” It feels as if her words are both colder and hotter than the night and she doesn't know if she speaks in fog or smoke or fire.
“There are a hundred things I could tell you about how things like you die. How you drown in the sea, how to fly so high that your sun swallows you whole and smiles as you fall screaming coated only in silks of fire and suffering.” It is only truth that blazes in her eyes and sorrow that furls those wings of rage over and over again against all her insides. Her soul burns and there is a promise that it's not liars that fill the cities at her back but storytellers who know fear and how to shot arrows feathered in foretelling through the throats of monsters.
In the end war only lives in stories. Long after all the soldiers and the dictators have dies it's only the stories that live on. Legends are forever and this stallion has made her all her veins runs black, black, black with words, words, words.
“I am not a thing,” Isra steps closer, horn tipped and it spirals in a way that promises to shred instead of cut. Her pause sounds like the turning of a page and the world feels thick with anticipation over the great ending that the flashing, sharp tip of her horn promises. She gathers herself with a mighty breath and those inked dragon wings flap inside her lungs and she wishes that she knew how to sneer and snap at his face. And when she finally continues it's quiet enough to be the great gasp of a forest that knows its only fate is to die. “that starts fires.”
Her horn flickers and turns its course and her eye blaze like blue, winter flames as she looks at him with a queer mix of a sorrow and rage that both know how to consume. “But I can tell you exactly how it burns.”
* * * * *
look at all these bones beneath
@Albrecht
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07-28-2018, 08:52 PM
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