Isra who is tired of lies
“The worst thing in the world is having to go back to the dark you shook off.”
“The worst thing in the world is having to go back to the dark you shook off.”
I
sra does not want to lie to him anymore. She doesn't want to pretend that she's a doe looking at a stag and wondering which apple looks the sweetest. And so she doesn't. Instead she strikes like the wolf she's become. Her magician skin falls off and the silk shroud around her turns to butterflies of vellum paper. They all fall upon the blades like a flock of butterflies felled by a winter wind that struck to soon. They all dissolve to dust upon the bladed flowers. Dead.
Her flowers remain weapons, pointed and rusted. They beg for his hooves, and his violence, and his broken, infected innocence. Isra does not care for what he could be, not anymore. All she cares for it what he has become. All the horses avoiding him are weights hitting one side of his scales, and oh, he's unbalanced. Her magic hums in her bones, begging her to turn scale to stone and sink it into the sea.
Magic cracks against her, like hunger, like fury, like the night crashing against the sunlight. It devours every lie until she stands, surrounded in weaponry, a queen. “Of course you can't go home.” Her horn flashes upon her brow, a single crown of bone to the two blades of horns hanging from like like two points on a crucifix. The tip of her horn looks like an ending. She does not stop to wonder what his looks like.
“Look how the city trembles around you. Look how they all fear you as much as they hate you.” Isra growls like a wolf and each of her words is a rumble of hunger in her straved, winter stomach. "Of course it was your fault.” She does not want to lie to him anymore. There is only a forest monster looking back at him through a copse of metal weapons-- a wolf and a queen.
Sand begs to become between her bladed petals. Isra listens. Arrows rise up between her flowers. A stem becomes a bow. She holds both with her telekinesis. Isra waits to aim.
Her hooves move backwards, the flowers turn to glass beneath her steps. They turn back to metal the second her hooves land on another patch of dirt. The city becomes whatever she wants it to be in each place she moves.
“But,” Isra laughs and the sky above her head rattles with a dragon's roar. “I do not fear you.” She blinks and the queen is gone. Only the wolf with the winter stomach is left.
@El Rey | "speaks" | notes: <3
