a tornado of divine
There is a hum in the fresh-dead daylight, an echo of energy as the warmth leeches it self from the stones like blood. Amaunet can feel it in the bruised twilight at the edge of the city; she can taste it in the places where the fires at the gates bleed into the violet, violent desert. It tastes electric on her tongue and each breath makes her lungs quiver as if she's just swallowed a storm.
Over and over again Amaunet inhales, holding in the storm, begging it to explode inside this fragile from. She wonders what she will become-- more storm than girl, or only bones and gore scattered on the streets to fester until the rains.
She's still wondering, and twilight-dreaming, when she reaches the bone and red-stone gates. She's still twilight-dreaming when the guards nod her through. Later they know she'll have a story for them, blood in the corner of her lips, and a kiss on the cheek for each of them for their silence. Later they will night-dream of her-- how being devoured by the feral, noble bastard girl might be worth all the blood, and burning.
And later, after the first later, and beyond the second later, she'll visit them in their sleep to lay a bone coin on their windowsills. A warning and a gift. It's always the same. The group them them have not reached the end of their game-- not yet, not yet.
Tonight her wings itch to fly, to fill their crevices with stardust and sand, to scream though the wind like an eagle as the night devours both the girl and her storm-lungs. But from above the snake gates are nothing more than another dune, another shadow in the blackness that's hardly darker than the sand sea. So she starts to walk, then gallop,with her wings flared wide, and war-paint glimmering in the corners of her gaze. She welcomes the burn in her lungs, a fire beneath a storm, and the salt sting of sweat frothing on her chest.
She even welcomes the sting of sand in her eyes and the way it brings almost-tears with it. There is no part of the desert, of the bruised twilight, of the almost-flying though the dunes hiding away the sand-monsters., that she does not love. She runs until the snake gates rise up before her, their eyes rubies the size of her head that glimmer with all the violence echoing in her lungs.
Only then does she stop, and upon hearing the same steps behind her that followed her through the desert, Amaunet only smiles and steps between the guardian cobras made of stone.
The hum in her blood rises to a fever pitch.
“Speaking.” @August
Over and over again Amaunet inhales, holding in the storm, begging it to explode inside this fragile from. She wonders what she will become-- more storm than girl, or only bones and gore scattered on the streets to fester until the rains.
She's still wondering, and twilight-dreaming, when she reaches the bone and red-stone gates. She's still twilight-dreaming when the guards nod her through. Later they know she'll have a story for them, blood in the corner of her lips, and a kiss on the cheek for each of them for their silence. Later they will night-dream of her-- how being devoured by the feral, noble bastard girl might be worth all the blood, and burning.
And later, after the first later, and beyond the second later, she'll visit them in their sleep to lay a bone coin on their windowsills. A warning and a gift. It's always the same. The group them them have not reached the end of their game-- not yet, not yet.
Tonight her wings itch to fly, to fill their crevices with stardust and sand, to scream though the wind like an eagle as the night devours both the girl and her storm-lungs. But from above the snake gates are nothing more than another dune, another shadow in the blackness that's hardly darker than the sand sea. So she starts to walk, then gallop,with her wings flared wide, and war-paint glimmering in the corners of her gaze. She welcomes the burn in her lungs, a fire beneath a storm, and the salt sting of sweat frothing on her chest.
She even welcomes the sting of sand in her eyes and the way it brings almost-tears with it. There is no part of the desert, of the bruised twilight, of the almost-flying though the dunes hiding away the sand-monsters., that she does not love. She runs until the snake gates rise up before her, their eyes rubies the size of her head that glimmer with all the violence echoing in her lungs.
Only then does she stop, and upon hearing the same steps behind her that followed her through the desert, Amaunet only smiles and steps between the guardian cobras made of stone.
The hum in her blood rises to a fever pitch.
