Israfel
Florentine was far too quiet, standing in the doorway like a frightened fawn. Gone was the self-assurance, the charisma, the dominating presence by a girl made queen. There was no captivating smile upon her lips, no adventurous elegance, nor did her eyes twinkle and glint with their known glaze of mischievousness. Instead a changeling was left in its wake, and Israfel did not know what to make of it. Pity? Yes, she felt pity. The mantle of leadership was a heavy weight. Heartache? That, too, aching for her losses. Confusion? Most definitely, but not for the reason that many might think.
She, too, was aching from loss. Terribly. Cancerous. It made her limbs feel like lead, her wings unable to rise, to fly. Bitterness was an unfathomable weight within her breast, but who, truly, was at fault? Whatever had happened, the truth, was not yet something that the Sun Daughter was privy to. She did not know all of the facts. Somehow that knowledge was above her station; words to be whispered behind closed doors, upon the lips of sovereigns and regimes. It angered her. Did she not deserve to know the truth? Why her most steadfast companion within these walls had been cast from his position and gone from their province?
That pain, however, that bitterness, could be placed aside. Despite her ignorance to many things, and the time she had spent dead, she understood that one could not always think of themselves when faced with such arduous tasks. Personal emotion meant nothing when in charge with very lives, and Israfel hoped that Florentine understood that.
The said woman’s words finally came, and Israfel remained alert. Pale ears were forward, fiery vermilion eyes focused only on the Sovereign of Terrastella, pale lips drawn downwards in a thoughtful frown. Then, the truth of Florentine’s visit. ’I have come to ask if you will be my Warden?’ For a moment, the shield-maiden could only stare, blissfully numb, before the weight of her emotions, warring and damned, slammed into her.
Pride. Dread. Fear. Uncertainty. Confusion. Desperation.
They battled for dominance, and the Daughter of the Sun sucked in a sharp, harsh breath, feeling sick. It was only then that she looked away, averting her gaze, wandering irises focusing upon the map of her homeland hung upon the wall. Was this not what she wanted? For her skills and dedication to be noticed…? To be recognized? But it felt wrong. It felt forced.
Why rally our forces now?
“… I’ll be your Warden,” Israfel agreed, her voice cautious, careful, as though speaking to a frightened animal instead of a Queen, “If you tell me the truth. Where has Isorath gone? I’m loyal to you, Florentine. You must know that. But I’m also loyal to him. We served together under your command. He is my friend, just as you are, and all I want to know is the truth. To serve you properly, I need to know.”
The truth. That was what it always came down to, right? Israfel could not, would not, serve a Court of lies. Surely the truth wasn’t too much to ask for?
She, too, was aching from loss. Terribly. Cancerous. It made her limbs feel like lead, her wings unable to rise, to fly. Bitterness was an unfathomable weight within her breast, but who, truly, was at fault? Whatever had happened, the truth, was not yet something that the Sun Daughter was privy to. She did not know all of the facts. Somehow that knowledge was above her station; words to be whispered behind closed doors, upon the lips of sovereigns and regimes. It angered her. Did she not deserve to know the truth? Why her most steadfast companion within these walls had been cast from his position and gone from their province?
That pain, however, that bitterness, could be placed aside. Despite her ignorance to many things, and the time she had spent dead, she understood that one could not always think of themselves when faced with such arduous tasks. Personal emotion meant nothing when in charge with very lives, and Israfel hoped that Florentine understood that.
The said woman’s words finally came, and Israfel remained alert. Pale ears were forward, fiery vermilion eyes focused only on the Sovereign of Terrastella, pale lips drawn downwards in a thoughtful frown. Then, the truth of Florentine’s visit. ’I have come to ask if you will be my Warden?’ For a moment, the shield-maiden could only stare, blissfully numb, before the weight of her emotions, warring and damned, slammed into her.
Pride. Dread. Fear. Uncertainty. Confusion. Desperation.
They battled for dominance, and the Daughter of the Sun sucked in a sharp, harsh breath, feeling sick. It was only then that she looked away, averting her gaze, wandering irises focusing upon the map of her homeland hung upon the wall. Was this not what she wanted? For her skills and dedication to be noticed…? To be recognized? But it felt wrong. It felt forced.
Why rally our forces now?
“… I’ll be your Warden,” Israfel agreed, her voice cautious, careful, as though speaking to a frightened animal instead of a Queen, “If you tell me the truth. Where has Isorath gone? I’m loyal to you, Florentine. You must know that. But I’m also loyal to him. We served together under your command. He is my friend, just as you are, and all I want to know is the truth. To serve you properly, I need to know.”
The truth. That was what it always came down to, right? Israfel could not, would not, serve a Court of lies. Surely the truth wasn’t too much to ask for?
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