Never regret thy fall,
O Icarus of the fearless flight
For the greatest tragedy of them all
Is never to feel the burning light.
O Icarus of the fearless flight
For the greatest tragedy of them all
Is never to feel the burning light.
Pretty words, Ianthe thinks, worthy of the muses, or else a result of the General’s prophet tongue. It is clear how highly the General thinks of her missing Queen, speaking so cleverly and denying it all in the same breath. Ianthe is almost curious to meet the woman who inspires such strange loyalty in her soldiers.
But much more does she wish to stand beside the General who calls on her by name, who ushers them all indoors with wide swept wings (they are not Swift wings, too deep for that, but Ianthe can not help but admire the strength inherent to them even as she scolds herself for it). In any other situation she is not Swift enough, but the gods have led Ianthe to answer her call, have lit her aflame. As things stand this is a woman worth following to war.
The doors swing wide at the General’s command, and Ianthe steps in amongst the others. Her skin twitches at the proximity of so many heretics, and she purses her lips to keep from curling them. The air moves strangely in the palace foyer, stifled, and she shifts her wings as much as she’s able with the discomfort of it. Already everything about this situation is in direct juxtaposition to everything she has ever known, ever painstakingly learned.
But Ianthe is dutiful.
But much more does she wish to stand beside the General who calls on her by name, who ushers them all indoors with wide swept wings (they are not Swift wings, too deep for that, but Ianthe can not help but admire the strength inherent to them even as she scolds herself for it). In any other situation she is not Swift enough, but the gods have led Ianthe to answer her call, have lit her aflame. As things stand this is a woman worth following to war.
The doors swing wide at the General’s command, and Ianthe steps in amongst the others. Her skin twitches at the proximity of so many heretics, and she purses her lips to keep from curling them. The air moves strangely in the palace foyer, stifled, and she shifts her wings as much as she’s able with the discomfort of it. Already everything about this situation is in direct juxtaposition to everything she has ever known, ever painstakingly learned.
But Ianthe is dutiful.
sorry this is so late!
