elif
Any other day Elif might have watched the gryphon and wondered which part truly ruled the beast - the lion, or the eagle. Today it doesn’t matter; each half is only another predator that makes up the whole that hunts her now. It is more nimble than she would have believed, and bigger than she would have thought, and her heart is beating in her throat now despite the brave gleam of her eyes.
But when the stranger speaks her bravery falters for a moment, and gives way to something else. Even if she weren’t the kind to hear a taunt, a dare, in the mildest of words, she would have heard it now. She cannot help it; she does glance back at the knife of his smile, at the way his wings lift and blot out the pathway as if they were blotting out the sun. Elif wonders now which threat is the greater.
Oh, and his final words choose for her. Heedless of the predator behind her she wheels and charges for him, ready to strike that smile from his mouth, ready to seize the words from his breath. He is turning, too, and she is lunging after -
Her cry of frustration and anger echoes around and around the cold stone as if mocking her when the gryphon lands in a flurry of feathers and snapping beak. It seems clear, now, that there is some connection between man and beast, but the realization is lost in the danger of the moment. Three times Elif advances on the creature, and three times it beats her back in a flurry of wings and claws and teeth (yet not striking, never drawing blood). Her hooves ring out on the stone, her breath rises in great plumes with each snort, her rage is written in each bristling feather.
But there is nothing she can do but wait. And by the time the gryphon at last leaves her, by the time she is free to make her way from the arena, there is no sign of the stallion of dripping gold and taunting words. The sky leaves no trail, and the world only smells of snow and stone.
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