“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul"
Isra, with each step, is becoming more and more unsure about how she fits in her own skin. She wonders if he can see it, the way her form seems like nothing more than a memory of skin and bone. It feels like there is ink running through her instead of blood. Ink that might wash away in tears or a gentle summer storm.
She cannot help but look at him and the soft, confidence blooming in him like an orchid given sunlight and love. Oh, she's jealous then, envious of that way that walking seems easy for him. Has she ever walked with confidence making bold all the lines of her shadows?
He discovers her then, unwrapping the secrets of her that are quickly becoming less and less sacred. She misses her cobweb darkness and her silence then. If his smile was dimmer, if she didn't need to be a queen, she would have turned then and dissolved into the crowd. She is not ready to share what little mystery she has left.
But running isn't for her anymore, as much as she wants it to be. So she smiles, forces a laugh that sounds like a bell hanging between her teeth. “Clever.” She swallows and blinks and tell herself to be brave, be brave because this is her home and he the stranger. This is the first time she's ever lead anyone into the marble and gemstone doors of her home. Does he see how lovely they are, can he see the bits of soot and old dragon, claw marks in the stone?
Can he feel in the air how everything seems sweeter, as hopeful as flowers when the winter starts to die? Isra wants to be spring, she wants to wear flower as easily as the stallion does. She wants to be a story, her story. She wants to be remade in ink that will never run or age.
Isra wants to be a good queen for her people.
“Welome then, to my home, clever stallion.” Her steps ring like her laughter as the doors part before her with an old groan. “It seems we have much to talk about.” The darkness broken up by candlelight devours her as she walks into her castle, waiting for him to follow.
@Ipomoea
