the sun shines low and red across the water,
The promise of snow in the air, and the rose glow of light above the roofs of her city, should have her turning for home. Almost everyone else has gone and the once wild night has been settling into slumber for hours now. Nothing about the dawn, about the silence, should make her feel as wild as it. It feels like her skin is burning, like the silence is made of a hundred of her mother's arrow and each is as wanting as she always it. At her side Foras can feel it too, the tingle at the tips of his fur and the way the earth begs to be explored at the points of his claws.
Each of them feels like they are dragons caught in a cage and all they want is freedom, and air, and fury. Neither of them sees the beauty in the hush, or the couple dissolving into the fog. They can only see the way the silence is begging for something to fill it, the way it's quieter than the sea, the way it is praying for chaos.
They both see the girl in the golden glow.
They see the defiance in the curl of the neck. Avesta turns to go to her with Foras walking in her shadow like another ghost waiting to dissolve into soot and fog. That same fog curls around her hooves and she imagines that it's begging to be remade into something else, something alive, something ready to become anything she wishes it to be. The curl of her own neck is just as defiant. It has to be to carry her horn at just the right angle (like she's debating on running the world through with it).
She hardly pauses at the girl's voice. Avesta is too distracted by the way the merchant tries to quiet her down and rush the other girl off the street. The sight of it sparks that vicious part of her, the part that is all her mother. It starts to smolder. She pauses in a shadow to settle the part of her that's starting to promise wildfire.
And of course she pauses to wake up a scrap of paper and a quill left behind from a poet who had dreamed of fame last night. Her sister could have told her the story behind both, she could has told Avesta what each wanted to be.
Aspara and not here and Avesta wakes them up anyway.
They follow in her wake like faithful hounds following their master into the hunt. And when she finally makes it to the girl and joins her in that golden glow of the coming morning, the paper and the quill dance like defiant hawks above their heads. Each looks like it never wants to be a quill or a paper in the dirt again and Avesta cannot blame them for it.
“Will these do?” Avesta smiles at her and there is something in her gaze as dark as the darkest sea. It looks--
It looks--
Primordial.
@Maret
