like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
Life has always turned as vibrant as the sunset after a sand-storm in moments like this. It sparks in her chest like a newborn star, all molten hot and bright enough to hurt. She can feel it with every step, with every quickening in the darkness, racing through her blood and organs like lighting spider-weaving just below her skin.
Each second feels like an hour. Each whispering roar of a teryr’s breath has her heart stumbling near-silent in her chest with the thrilling feel of free-falling. Amaunet is fearful enough of death, of feeling that spark of a star in her chest burn too hot that it must die out too quickly, that it steadies the monster is her chest begging her to scream and wake up the monster.
She wonders, even as the roaring slumber of the monster rattles her bones, which of them would be more agile through the dangerous channels of the canyons. A hawk is faster than an eagle after all, and there is something to be said for spending a childhood racing hawks, and lions, and spears flying through the air. But even with the dangerous wondering, she moves slow enough to be a shadow at twilight as she traces the teryr’s body for a feather ripe for plucking.
It’s been so long since she last played this game that she lingers over the choice now that she’s (slightly) outgrown a child’s arrogance.
Amaunet has almost forgotten the lost desert king behind her until she angles her head back towards the path-way out. When she sees him, with his white-markings glowing in the fading light of the outside, she only smiles a warning (as feral as a wolf snarling a smile at a coyote).
There is only that warning for the stallion in her wake as she reaches forward, still as the hawk on a branch waiting for the vole to shift its weight. And when she pulls the feather from the side of the creature’s neck she is just as quick as that, just as almost-silent, when she steps back into the darkness with the feather caught between her teeth like a bone.
But when the teryr lifts his eyelid in the slow way of a monster waking from the slumber of a feast, she moves back, back, back, towards the glimmer entrance to the cave.
Amaunet smiles again, that wolf to the coyote look, to the king as she spreads her wings and prepares to run. And she glows with all the brightness, and all the hunger, of a hawk out flying an eagle across a crystal clear lake.
And had she been less fearful of burning out like a star she might have laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
@Ipomoea
Each second feels like an hour. Each whispering roar of a teryr’s breath has her heart stumbling near-silent in her chest with the thrilling feel of free-falling. Amaunet is fearful enough of death, of feeling that spark of a star in her chest burn too hot that it must die out too quickly, that it steadies the monster is her chest begging her to scream and wake up the monster.
She wonders, even as the roaring slumber of the monster rattles her bones, which of them would be more agile through the dangerous channels of the canyons. A hawk is faster than an eagle after all, and there is something to be said for spending a childhood racing hawks, and lions, and spears flying through the air. But even with the dangerous wondering, she moves slow enough to be a shadow at twilight as she traces the teryr’s body for a feather ripe for plucking.
It’s been so long since she last played this game that she lingers over the choice now that she’s (slightly) outgrown a child’s arrogance.
Amaunet has almost forgotten the lost desert king behind her until she angles her head back towards the path-way out. When she sees him, with his white-markings glowing in the fading light of the outside, she only smiles a warning (as feral as a wolf snarling a smile at a coyote).
There is only that warning for the stallion in her wake as she reaches forward, still as the hawk on a branch waiting for the vole to shift its weight. And when she pulls the feather from the side of the creature’s neck she is just as quick as that, just as almost-silent, when she steps back into the darkness with the feather caught between her teeth like a bone.
But when the teryr lifts his eyelid in the slow way of a monster waking from the slumber of a feast, she moves back, back, back, towards the glimmer entrance to the cave.
Amaunet smiles again, that wolf to the coyote look, to the king as she spreads her wings and prepares to run. And she glows with all the brightness, and all the hunger, of a hawk out flying an eagle across a crystal clear lake.
And had she been less fearful of burning out like a star she might have laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
@Ipomoea
