"We are a lost cause,
doomed before our inception.”
doomed before our inception.”
And she's there in the wild forest, their queen, pressing onward through the crowd like she's just a girl dancing by the water's edge with pearls around her throat. Like she's not a wolf walking through their mortal realm pretending not to be a god. Here, in this home, its easy to be nothing more than another body in the crowd, another girl longing for a secret touch.
Isra knows it's dangerous, all this wanting (and dreaming and aching). She knows it's slowly eating away at any soft edge or flower blossom left in her heart.
Later she'll tell herself she was about to leave, to find Eik and her wild children, to do anything but inch closer to the roaring fire. Later she'll tell herself it was only politics that made falter the moment she spotted Marisol walking tight as a blade though the crowd.
Later, later, later... she will know it was all a lie.
The sharp inhale of breath she takes has nothing to do with sorrow, only wanting, only hurting. Roses, thorny and bloody, replace all the stones at her hooves. When she moves it is almost quietly on that bed of roses that winds through the crowd all the way to Marisol. And when she's close enough to count the feathers of her wings, Isra can see the way the night and the fire is making all the space around the new queen lilac.
Isra doesn't pause before steeping into that twilight space. Nor does she pause to think it's a terrible thing for her to do--- the way she traces the curl of Marisol's cheek with her lips. The only pause she takes is the one between her sharp inhale and when she says, “I missed you.”And like always, like forever, it comes out like a breathy prayer that a girl dancing by the the sea might whisper.
Again Isra thinks, there is a home here in the wild streets.
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