“...the great floodgates of the wonder-world swung open...”
Each inch of her feels like it's not with skin but glass, sharp and barely held together. The poison is not gentle as it leaves her body, it burns like star-fire (bright and cold and without end). Her magic serenades the pain before it devours it. It sings for more-- more pain, more fury, more hate. It takes and takes until it's bloated. It takes until Isra is starting to rise.
The flowers hum in a rising pitch that turns into a dark melody, like oil. It's not flowers that are singing but all those little mites and worms that are no longer mites or worms. The first hornet rises from the petals and the silken leaf trembles when the second climbs out after him. Their wings are trembling with a small fury.
It's only a small fury until more and more hornets climb out from the ivy and the pollen. The hum and they rise like Isra's magic. They swarm and and the hive mind takes over. They are angry. They are not made to be hornets and their bones were not supposed to turn into flowers. Isra his no control over them but she cannot find it into herself to care. Not when she is suffering alone and a ghost is still running through her heart in a loop that has no end.
The hornets fly up like smoke. Isra trembles on fawn legs that feel fragile and weak. They fully rise together, the wobbling queen and her shroud of insects full of rage.
The humming intensives. They all start to dive in a swarm and for a moment she does not know who's rage is thrumming like a heartbeat in her ears. It's all she can hear, this song of wings and rage. Even her magic throbs with that melody and it's still adding the words, yes, yes, yes.
Isra cares little that the magic in her feels like a war she's loosing. It lurches against her bones like a beast in a cage. It wants out of her skin and she wants tear herself open and let it free. The hornets are stinging her even as they dive for the two stallions foolish enough to watch her (as if she is the monster here instead of them). The pain of those stingers only fuels her and pushes out any drops of poison left in her blood.
“Raum.” The way she says his name is the way his knives cut through Acton (quick and headless). Her teeth flash white and sharp in the gloom of the cave when she smiles. It's not a kind smile; it's the smile a shovel makes as they toss dirt over a casket. It's steel and iron, hollow and hungry.
Isra is hungry. A dragon is too when he catches the break in the darkness of their bond.
She drops her horn to point at Raum's heart. The point of it whistles through the humming and it says, mine..
And the hornets are still pouring from the ivy like water.
@Raum @Abel
