like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
She recognizes him only as all mortals who know the faces of those sitting on a throne do. Somewhere she knows the name behind the feathers at his hooves, the whisper of a once Davke who found glory outside the desert. Now she does not bother to remember them.
Amaunet does not recall the stories of weakness, not when she looks back into his red gaze and sees only the determination there. She does not see the forest in his look, only the red, bloody shine of his skin in the sunlight.
In the way of their people, for they are theirs today, she lifts her chin and a single wing in a look that says (in the way of the coyotes), until the hare is caught. And when she smiles it is with the mouth of a coyote and the hunger of a pack.
Desert dust falls from her wings as she tucks them back to her side and turns from him back to the pathway leading up. She tries not to listen to the sound of a hawk crying overhead or the scuffle of a desert mouse running away from their shadows stretching out. Amaunet listens closely for her death and her death alone. Kings and stray members of the tribe are not her responsibility. Heroics, to her, have always been the straightest and fastest path to the underworld. And she enjoys being alive very, very much.
This high up the trail she can feel the faint vibrations of a thing bedding down to slumber a meal away. She can almost hear the soft hush, hush, hush of its breath that sound more like the sea than a rolling sand dune. That sea sound makes the idea of stealing a feather seem almost righteous instead of foolish. Nothing of the desert should sound so like the tide rolling in.
Amaunet knows she sounds like the desert at night and the wings of an owl swooping down between the cactus to catch a mouse. Even her breath is a soundless thing in her lungs as the yawning mouth of the cave opens up before them. To her the blackness seems almost welcoming when she looks back over her shoulder, just enough to determine if the stallion is brave enough to follow.
When she lifts her wings, and tastes the current that will carry to her safety home, she walks into the dark mouth that bodes death to all those foolish enough to enter like a prodigal daughter coming home.
@Ipomoea
Amaunet does not recall the stories of weakness, not when she looks back into his red gaze and sees only the determination there. She does not see the forest in his look, only the red, bloody shine of his skin in the sunlight.
In the way of their people, for they are theirs today, she lifts her chin and a single wing in a look that says (in the way of the coyotes), until the hare is caught. And when she smiles it is with the mouth of a coyote and the hunger of a pack.
Desert dust falls from her wings as she tucks them back to her side and turns from him back to the pathway leading up. She tries not to listen to the sound of a hawk crying overhead or the scuffle of a desert mouse running away from their shadows stretching out. Amaunet listens closely for her death and her death alone. Kings and stray members of the tribe are not her responsibility. Heroics, to her, have always been the straightest and fastest path to the underworld. And she enjoys being alive very, very much.
This high up the trail she can feel the faint vibrations of a thing bedding down to slumber a meal away. She can almost hear the soft hush, hush, hush of its breath that sound more like the sea than a rolling sand dune. That sea sound makes the idea of stealing a feather seem almost righteous instead of foolish. Nothing of the desert should sound so like the tide rolling in.
Amaunet knows she sounds like the desert at night and the wings of an owl swooping down between the cactus to catch a mouse. Even her breath is a soundless thing in her lungs as the yawning mouth of the cave opens up before them. To her the blackness seems almost welcoming when she looks back over her shoulder, just enough to determine if the stallion is brave enough to follow.
When she lifts her wings, and tastes the current that will carry to her safety home, she walks into the dark mouth that bodes death to all those foolish enough to enter like a prodigal daughter coming home.
@Ipomoea
