“AND DEEP IN OUR SECRET HEARTS
WE WORRIED THAT WE WERE AN ACCIDENT,”
WE WORRIED THAT WE WERE AN ACCIDENT,”
“Your justice will be the same as your vengeance.” Warset corrects him around her mouth full of snarling teeth and her belly heavy with blood-stones. She is too old, too knowing of all the songs she never forgot how to sing over a battlefield of the acts of dragons, and gods, and cosmic snakes. There is a song in him too, she can see it trapped in the darkness of his cold and mortal eyes, and each note is a trill of iron and heart-string.
She hates every note of it. Every. Single. Note.
And like all stars that know how a song is to be sung, she knows the moment the stallion steps back that time to run has slipped past her like a river current. Her wing flare violently at her side, and she rears up as the dragon exhales clouds that are nothing more than a mockery of all the incandescent and cosmic colors she knows how to name. When she trills a battle-cry it's a tangled melody of wrath, warning and fear.
Warset knows she shouldn't inhale the smoke. She knows there is something wrong with it in the same way a star knows how wrong it is to wish upon the life of a sister. But her mortal form, this cursed cage of bone and skin, does not know how to breathe song and darkness instead of hair. She inhales because she must, but her wings do not stop whispering a warcry to the dragon climbing down the canyon like a spider down a web.
Over and over again she inhales. The smoke, the horses, the snakes of colors pressing in against her like vines to a willow tree.
Her blood grows sluggish, her heart sleepy and sorrowful, her bones fill with satin instead of marrow. She blinks, and blinks, and closes her eyes. But she does not answer them, her wrath might be slumbering but it is still wrath. Her mind tells her she is safe, but her wrath and her soul know that she is not.
Dying is never safe.
Yet she almost welcomes it as their terrible song turns to lullaby.
“And you will find--” She warns with the last of her fury, and her pride, and her war-song that does not know how to heel. Her eyes open, one last time, to see the dragon smiling with a mouthful of spit and smoke. She does not see the man (and hardly senses him now).
She smiles. It it almost as hateful as it is sweetly full of sorrow. She tries to finish her warning...
Nothing comes out. Her eyes close.
She is safe, the darkness tell her.
But why, she thinks in a stuttering mess of thoughts, can she hear a leopard and a star screaming in this safe darkness?
@Vercingtorix
She hates every note of it. Every. Single. Note.
And like all stars that know how a song is to be sung, she knows the moment the stallion steps back that time to run has slipped past her like a river current. Her wing flare violently at her side, and she rears up as the dragon exhales clouds that are nothing more than a mockery of all the incandescent and cosmic colors she knows how to name. When she trills a battle-cry it's a tangled melody of wrath, warning and fear.
Warset knows she shouldn't inhale the smoke. She knows there is something wrong with it in the same way a star knows how wrong it is to wish upon the life of a sister. But her mortal form, this cursed cage of bone and skin, does not know how to breathe song and darkness instead of hair. She inhales because she must, but her wings do not stop whispering a warcry to the dragon climbing down the canyon like a spider down a web.
Over and over again she inhales. The smoke, the horses, the snakes of colors pressing in against her like vines to a willow tree.
Her blood grows sluggish, her heart sleepy and sorrowful, her bones fill with satin instead of marrow. She blinks, and blinks, and closes her eyes. But she does not answer them, her wrath might be slumbering but it is still wrath. Her mind tells her she is safe, but her wrath and her soul know that she is not.
Dying is never safe.
Yet she almost welcomes it as their terrible song turns to lullaby.
“And you will find--” She warns with the last of her fury, and her pride, and her war-song that does not know how to heel. Her eyes open, one last time, to see the dragon smiling with a mouthful of spit and smoke. She does not see the man (and hardly senses him now).
She smiles. It it almost as hateful as it is sweetly full of sorrow. She tries to finish her warning...
Nothing comes out. Her eyes close.
She is safe, the darkness tell her.
But why, she thinks in a stuttering mess of thoughts, can she hear a leopard and a star screaming in this safe darkness?
@
