“And there is nothing more dangerous in this world, in any world, than someone calm, clear and angry.”
For a moment Isra does not want to be a unicorn. She wants to be a bit of fire and a fleck of ash shaken loose from the wings of a phoenix. She wants float on the cool air between these dusty, once dead walls. She wants to swim through the rivers of blood in Noctiilucent and burn out all the traces of hatred and poison left to drag her down into the dark mire of sadness.
Isra wants to be whatever it is that will save her friend.
And so perhaps her touch turns a little hotter when she tucks it against the other mare's neck, a little more like steel instead of warm skin. Each of the spoken words sinks into her bones, her soul, her heart. She can feel them all like old scars and aches of battles that she knows nothing of how to fight. All she knows is suffering and that she can relate too, she knows the darkness and how to whisper to it of drowning.
It's not until the story is done that she pulls her nose from Noctiilicent's crest. She brushes her across the mare's dark cheek and wishes again to be fire instead of a unicorn who is a queen. Each tear she tastes bring something dark and dangerous to the surface of her heart. Her magic rises towards those aches and that part of her is all fire and nothing of unicorn sweetness. “You are safe from all of them here. Here you can heal from all your regrets and become whoever it is that you decide to be.” Each of her words is a promise and a bond that she would die before severing.
The last tear is soon wiped away by her touch. “This house is yours. I think it needs you as much as you need it.” At her hooves a once old carpet blooms into bright purples and reds and the broken wool becomes silk. It is the last thing her magic does before it sinks deeper and deeper into that dark thing blooming on the surface of her heart.
Isra thinks of teeth then, of rage and of monsters brave enough to wait outside her walls.
She thinks of fury.
“But if they do come,” Isra licks the tears from her lips and pulls away to meet their gazes together like swords. “Your sister and your gods will find no welcome here. All they will find here is how much the moon can hate the sun and how very cold she can be.” Isra lifts her horn into a beam of moonlight shifting through the dark clouds and she welcomes that dark thing in her heart to burn and burn and burn like fire.
Outside Fable lifts his head towards the night sky. He roars until all the horses in the markets turn towards the sound and think to themselves that it's a blessing that their queen loves her citizens so very, very much.
“Perhaps,” Isra pauses, smiles and tries to make it look less cruel, less like something born from that blooming darkness. She tries to remember how much she once hated all the stories of war and tragic endings. Oh but she fails and even the flash of amusement in her eyes does little to hide how dangerous Isra craves to be. “Perhaps they will call me the Wrath of the Moon.”
And she can't help but think that fury feels so much better than sadness and despair.
@Noctiilucent
