A part of me, one that is so close to the surface of my skin, laments when she pulls back her fire. My magic, my immortality, had been calling to it with its own siren song. And deep in my soul, between all the pieces that are still being put back together in this endless cycle of suffering, I know the words it had been singing.
Let go. Over and over again, let go, like a mantra of destruction and recreation.
There is only one part of me, that soft part that refuses to turn to stone, that is glad she didn't listen. It's that part that steps closer when she pulls back her flame. And it's that part that rises above my magic when I hear the why her voice stutters instead of roars. It reminds me of Katniss, and I find myself, ready to change the world again. And so I do, because it's easy, easy, easy. All the grass changes around us to timber, and glass, and metal begging to be molten. I look at her and I wonder if she'll understand that between the two of us, she is not the one that needs to burn.
“You only have to ask.” I smile like the wild, feral god I'm becoming. I know it must look strange on my face, between the soft delicate lines of it. But I also know it matches the war in my eyes, the purpose, the holiness. No, she is not the one that needs to burn, not in this space growing smaller and smaller between friends. And I hope that if I don't come back, if I die on the other side of the sea, that she will remember me like this-- alive, wild, free, reckless-- a unicorn.
I do not need to look down at the lines she's drawing in the ash between us. How many times had I done the same thing, made patterns out of nothing, just to tell myself that there was a reason for all this hurt in the world? How many times had I lied to myself each night, telling myself that I did not have to become the beast to save the world?
How many times have I lied?
Her eyes are softer now when she looks back at me, soft as sorrow always is. If there is a crack there, a new fissure in the fury of her soul, I can almost see it in the tightness between her lips. The sight of it almost breaks me, almost lets that thing in me that's turned all beast loose. I want to destroy anything that has made her feel like this. “Yes.” My words are a little cold, a little full of heartbreak, a little like smoke and death bells. I touch the curl of her cheek, where I imagine her pulse is racing, racing, racing like the wind though the mountains. Fire always races. I learned that a long time ago.
“I felt like I would die if I didn't destroy it.” I don't tell her that I still feel like that. I don't tell her that I feel like I might die if I don't destroy each black part of my soul and the thing that turned it to ore.
I don't tell her that I feel like I'm going to die if I don't go to war. But I'm sure the look of it, the ice and blood, is in the spiral of my horn and the blaze in my eyes.
@Morrighan
