like the holding of hands
like the breaking of glass
like the breaking of glass
T
he desert was unforgiving.She knew that when she came. It was the first cardinal rule of the Mors.
But it did not stop her from making the journey, her wings long exhausted and her lips slightly parched. It did not stop her from traveling over the hot dunes, from leaping into the air with excitement at the sight of the long winded spires of the Day court. She had done it. She had bested the hot sand and merciless sun. She had made it to the other side. Now she was only a little worse for wear, her hair a tangled mess and her wings crusted with dust in every feather.
But she was here. She had made it!
Or, at least, she thought she did.
What she thought was a castle in the distance had started to morph into something entirely different. The long beautiful spires had transformed into long columns of detrimental rock; the arches were still the same at least, though now they lacked that certain hand-made touch. They were formed by the earth, by the hands of a god that had since forgotten about his creation. She only huffed in frustration, stomping her small hoof in disappointment, as she turned to walk the other way.
Soon she would be good and utterly lost. But that had never really stopped her before, and she had never been one to quit halfway through her journey.
@Orestes | "speaks" | notes:
