loving you was the most exquisite
form of self-destruction
There is a certain stillness to the world by the frozen lake. Normally Morrighan would like it because it means she's away from everything and everyone. Now, she's not so sure. It makes everything in her head louder and there are no distractions. Even with the water, she can't watch the ripples form by the wind or a creature coming up to the surface. A solid layer of ice is covering it, so there will be none of that until it melts. Given the dropping temperatures, it will be a while until winter goes away.
She makes herself a campfire, although not a very large one. It's enough to keep her warm and give her something to focus on. Yet when she stares into the flames and plays around with controlling it, it's not quite as satisfying. How disappointing.
She is too troubled apparently with Isra leaving and her still not resolved feelings for Al'Zahra… for whatever reason she is so hung up on it all. There is rage, sadness, confusion, and it all just mixes together and creates a kind of chaos in her head. The regime will be changing and she's not sure just how it will yet. Moira is still Emissary, but who's to say she won't take a step further? She has never hated someone so much in her life until they began butting heads. All these things used to be solved by burning the world down, but now it seems she's even lost that. It frustrates her. In a way, she hates herself.
Morrighan wanders away from her campfire for a moment to stand by the edge of the lake. Beneath her hooves are small stones that are smooth to the touch. She picks one up and throws it across the ice, more for the satisfaction of throwing something, but the result is surprising. As the rock skips across, a strange sound echoes off the frozen lake. It's an eerie high pitched noise, almost like a bird chirping, but it doesn't sound quite right. It almost reminds her of the strange birds that lived on the island before it transformed for winter.
She decides to pick up another and throws it a bit harder this time. The sound rings out louder and it's such an odd, otherworldly noise. Bram comes up to her side and looks out at the lake as the stone finishes skipping.
"You might want to turn around," he says through their telepathy and nudges her leg.
"What," she grumbles, not moving just yet. She can hear footsteps crunching in the snow in the distance, but doesn't feel like talking to anyone right now.
"It's her," is all he says and that is what makes Morrighan turn around. Up on a hill, she sees her. Even in the low sunlight, her chains seem to shimmer and her coat is like the sun's own rays. It makes her heart skip a beat and it's disgusting.
As the woman moves closer, she knows their eyes aren't playing tricks on them. It is indeed Al'Zahra and Morrighan freezes in place. She doesn't know what to do as panic sets in. The last time they were together, they were dancing (and they were close). They may have kissed, she doesn't really remember. But she does remember running and never looking back.
Now she can't even run. Her mind is blank and it seems her breath is caught in her throat.
The Illuminated
“both beauty and terror, without beginning, without end.”
From the other side of the hill she can hear the music of the winter twisting with the winds of almost twilight. It's been years since she has heard the sound of stone, and ice, and frost. It sounds lovelier here, with the open air stretching out for miles and miles around her. Everything sounds better when she swallows freedom with each inhale of these dying, mortal lungs. It's the ending that makes it sweeter, the reapers nipping at her blood each time she takes a step and each time she plunges off a cliff with no heed for the consequences.
There's a headiness in the recklessness and she's addicted to the hedonism of this life.
Ahead there is a pillar of smoke that instantly makes her thing of Morrighan with her fearful heart of far. And when she inhales the freedom-tainted air, there is the scent of wolf that sends something in this prey body of her humming and trilling like a sparrow in a garden. She quivers with that strange urge to run into a wildfire just to see what hungry lions might be starving in the smoke. She's alive with it: wanting, needing, lust. All her morrow is screaming at her to live, live, live. By the edge of her teeth, live.
And maybe it's telling her to conquer too.
Once a fortune-teller with stolen magic told her that love is not a choice. The charlatan told her that it would take her suddenly, like a shadow overtaking a summer bloom. But that was star-magic, young and foolish, and nothing compared to only magic her soul and memories recognizes.
Because this is a choice.
Al'Zahra is choosing to crest the hill with an echo of the same steps Morrighan, in her wolfish heart, will know belong to her and her alone. She's choosing to toss her chains in a greeting older than their bones, a coquettish song that says in the way of predators, run faster. And she's choosing to hum a song that echoes the crackling of the fires, and the twang of the winter song, with embers catching the dying light smoldering in her gaze. She is choosing all of it.
It's that gaze, the one with embers and hunger, that doesn't leave Morrighan, when she smiles and flicks her tail at the wolf like a doe flicking at a hungry, summer fly. “I'm not sure the lake will hold you if you run that way.” Zahra wonders how many fools of Denocte are cowed by the fury of Morrighan's wrath. She wonders how many of them might turn tail and run with faced with something as apocalyptic as a mare with fire instead of blood and chaos instead of organs.
But she remembers when fire was leeched from the blood of jinn and given to the gods. It's that blood in her veins, watered-down conquest, that coos a greeting to all the bits of Morrighan that are more death than girl. And it's that blood, that mortal blood, that yearns for just a bit of smoke.
loving you was the most exquisite
form of self-destruction
As Al'Zahra approaches, it's as if the world around them has stopped. It's the stereotypical backlit glow and wind whipping hair kind of look, only this is happening in real time. Morrighan doesn't know what to do about any of it. This isn't something she can easily get rid of (nor does she want to exactly; she wants to savor every moment of it, maybe get a real taste of it, if she can find the courage). It's like the woman knows too, as her chains sing in sync with her steps and she casts a golden gaze upon her. Morr looks away immediately and her cheeks feel warm.
"I'm not sure the lake will hold you if you run that way."
She's not wrong. Fire and water do not exactly mix and Morr has never been a fan of swimming anyway. But, she can't help but narrow her eyes even a little for the comment. It's definitely a playful jab at how she ran off last time, but that doesn't mean she's not embarrassed.
It must mean something though if Al'Zahra is here now? Why else would she be?
Maybe it's selfish to think she's just here for Morr, but she'd like to believe that it's the truth. Just like how she sought out the woman specifically among all the dancers that night to keep her promise.
If that's the reason, then she better savor every moment of it. She couldn't screw it up this time or their paths may never cross again. This thought tears her heart up more than trying to make sense of the fluttering feelings in her chest.
"Might be worth a try," she replies with a shrug, turning for a moment to look out at the lake. For a moment, she considers jumping in. It's not deep enough to hide her though and it would only make her feel worse. "You never know, I might float."
When Morrighan turns back, she finds herself moving closer to the woman. It's like a magnetic pull that's making her close the gap between them. She wants to, so, so badly.
"I…" she starts to say, but isn't really sure how to get the words to come out. She's sorry? She's happy to see her again? Her mind is jumbled with all the things she should and wants to say, but it's as if she forgot how to speak or function.
"I didn't want to leave," she ends up blurting out and her eyes widen. "I mean, I'm sorry I ran, I just… I don't know." She looks down at the ground and clenches her jaw. Morr has never stuttered before. Ever. Yet, that's all she seems to be able to do around Al'Zahra.
She closes her eyes and breathes in the scent of woodsmoke and spices. It's intoxicating.
"Must be witchcraft." She looks back up again and thinks it would make sense if this girl was a witch. A strong one at that with the kind of spell Morr feels like she's under. As her heart beats faster, she almost doesn't want to fight against it either.
The Illuminated
“both beauty and terror, without beginning, without end.”
Al'Zahra, for a moment when she watches Morrighan turn back to the lake, wishes for something her hunger has no words for. It blazes a line down her spine, as furious as a lash, and echoes in her voice when she steps close enough to say, “I will not save you if you don't float.” She shivers with the feeling racing down her spine, that nameless beast crawling its way through her soul. And her words, whispered and soft despite their vicious meaning, are the only warning Morrighan will get before she closes the distance between them.
They are the only warning the Warden will ever get.
In her life there have been a hundred moments like this, her form pressing against a curl of smoke, an ember in the dark. She is familiar with the thrill in her blood, the hunger, the fury that has nothing at all do with violence. This is nothing strange, or new, but when she rests her throat against Morrighan's withers, her blood hums a song that is almost as bright to her as a planet kissing the darkness of space. Al'Zahra, the last of her kind, the girl of soot and smoke, vibrates with the brightness of it like a star about to fall.
And even though she wants to lift Morrighan's gaze from the ground, and trace arcane wolfish marks against her shoulder, she doesn't. She swallows down her anger and the words that want to tear out of her throat: be a wolf, don't look down, not ever. She silences everything in her body but her pulse beating slow and steady in the hollow of her cheek, just beneath the skin she's pressing so softly against Morrighan.
There is so much to Morrighan's words, that for a moment Zahra only listens to the echo of her pulse and the words stumbling chaotic from the Warden's lips. Her chains whisper against her skin when she shifts her weight and rests more of it against the spine beneath her neck. She wants to laugh, to kiss the words from Morrighan's lips if only to stop the stuttering melody of them. She wants--
Oh she wants to do so many things.
But she is not a creature made to save anything, so she only wants for the silence to fall once more between them. And then she drags her teeth down Morrighan's shoulder as she pulls away. “It's not magic.” Zahra's teeth flash in a smile, wicked as a siren perched upon a warship prow. Her muscles quiver beneath her skin as the winter chill races back into the places she had been touching her mare made of fire.
And when the hush falls again, she only stands there, waiting to see which direction Morrighan might choose this time. Because it has always been a choice.
we know one of us is going down
well, i say, let's do this anyway
on the hunting grounds
For a moment, Al'Zahra's words sting when she says she wouldn't save her. It says a lot about her, but also, maybe that would be for the best. If Morrighan went as far as to practically drown herself, she would rather be left to do so. She'd have to be at a real low point in her life to make that decision and she wouldn't want anyone stopping her. For now at least, she's not anywhere close to that point.
Even when the distance closes between them and everything in her says to run, she stays. There is a push and pull feeling, but there is a warmth that keeps her here (or is it something more?).
It becomes more when she feels the mare's touch again. She flinches involuntarily, but still stays. There is a desire for more and maybe even more than that. As her heart begins to beat against her chest, it's like a bird trying to escape. Al'Zahra's touch moves further along her back and Morrighan feels like her legs might give out.
"It's not magic," she says, but it's something. She had been so entranced that she didn't even realize that Bram had left. There was a brief time long ago that she thought she had felt what could be called love, but it hadn't amounted to anything. Now that she's here, she isn't sure if it was because of her fear of vulnerability or if the man had just been an idiot.
But at this moment, all that matters is what she feels now and how much she craves more of the woman's touch after she pulls away. Somehow, Morr steps forward, the warmth of their bodies mingling again and chasing away the cold winter air. This time, her mouth traces imaginary lines in the woman's neck. Her mind screams at her, but she ignores it so she can savor every moment here.
"I want to know you, 'Zahra," she whispers into the mare's ear. It's a confession, maybe even a plea. If anything, it's a sign that Morr is finally letting the walls down that she's spent nearly decades putting up. "Who are you, really?" Maybe it's stupid, but she doesn't care. She wants to know who the woman truly is and what her soul looks like. If she peeled away the layers, would it show a darkness like her own? Perhaps she's being too hopeful in thinking there's a chance that there could be.
A fire ignites at her feet and starts to surround them, feeding off Morr's deeper emotions. It closes in on them, almost close enough to consume them both. Maybe she'll let it.
The Illuminated
“both beauty and terror, without beginning, without end.”
It would be so easy, when Morrighan starts tracing lines down her neck, to toss her head and turn her chains into a noose to hang around the Warden's throat. The godly part of her, the violent beast settled into her bones, thinks it would be as easy as blinking (as easy as burning). And when she quivers beneath the touch it has nothing to do with lust, and everything, every single thing, to do with wrath older than the bottom of the lake.
It is why she answers the touch with one of her own, a feather whisper of air to the smoke and fire coiling beneath Morrighan's skin. Fire spreads around them, spreading out to meet itself a circle. Zahra sees it for the snake it is, the trap it is. There is violent passion in the flash of her teeth as she rises them back to the mare's ear. Fury drips of her in a cacophony that sounds so much like a stutter of her lungs in heart, a fragile sound so full of everything colored red, that it seems nothing more than a shell cracking.
Maybe this is why fire is the same color as a cracked open vein in the noontime. Maybe this is why fire and love are so often twisted together (almost grotesquely) in poetry. Maybe this is only how old things love, with a ferociousness that seems both desperation, and hate, and demand all at once.
Whatever it is has her pressing back, dragging teeth along the outside curl of Morrighan's ear, and whispering. “This world was mine,” There is savage ruin in the rasp of her voice, a cliff edge and a razor edge begging the Warden to wander a little closer to the abyss. She inhales the smoke, lets it almost choke her (like a noose, like a golden chain pulled taunt). “before it belonged to the gods.” Her words suffocate themselves in Morrighan's hair, falling into the silence below the hiss of the fire.
The whole world could burn, and suffer, and never rise again. Al'Zahra would not be sad to see it go.
“It was mine.” And the way she says the words, with a kiss pressed above an artery leading right into Morrighan's heart, makes it seem like it is not world she's talking about now. This brutal world, mortal and withering, hold very little appeal for her now. How pale it seems in comparison with the feeling of a noose held tight between her teeth.
we know one of us is going down
well, i say, let's do this anyway
on the hunting grounds
She feels teeth move along her skin and the fire around them only grows more hungry. Maybe it's she who feels the hunger for something more. Something where she finally feels alive like the flames burning around them. With every breath, the fire comes closer as if it wants to steal the air from their lungs.
Morrighan already feels breathless. She's barely taking in Al'Zahra's words while her mind is screaming. The way she says the world was her's makes her wonder if the woman had been a god before. Either that or an angel now fallen and forced to walk among the mortal realm. Although Morr had never been a god, immortality could feel like it sometimes. She felt unstoppable, untouchable. A shiver runs through her body.
"Am I yours now?" she asks softly, her eyes full of hope and wanting. Maybe she's falling too hard for the girl in gold, but it doesn't matter anymore.
She just wants to feel -
Morrighan takes some of Al'Zahra's mane between her teeth and tugs her forward. She moves toward the woods with the fire following beside her. She hadn't expected herself to make the first move, but here she is. Now all she can hope is that the woman will follow (and maybe, just maybe, she feels something too).
The Illuminated
“both beauty and terror, without beginning, without end.”
There is a darkness in the way she touches Morrighan. A blackness in the soot of her lips as they paint arcane scripture across fire-blessed skin. Perhaps there is lust too, below that blackness and darkness, as blue-bright as the center of a flame. Their skin is almost grafted together in places: a hip to a rib-bone, a throat to a lip, a shoulder to a crest. And between it all, beyond it all, is the soot and smoke of a hundred fires that have nothing to do with love.
It's a plague, it's a sickness, it's the core of Al'Zahra whittled down to furious want.
Her kind did not inherit the world for a reason. They would have consumed it. Down to the ore and the bone they would have consumed it. She still wants too, even as the last. That rabid hunger to watch it all burn has not faded. Even death might not take it from her.
Her voice feels like ash at her teeth when she says, “Yes”. Every inch of her skin, every gun-shot click of her bones as she follows the pull of Morrighan's teeth, feels like kindling tucked into the belly of the earth. Can the Warden feel it, the rage churning and consuming all of Al'Zahra like a black-hole consumes planets and spits out space-dust? Can she feel it?
There is that black-hole pull between their skin as she follows the tug of teeth and the hiss of flames nipping at her heels like hounds. And there is that hunger blazing in her, that blackness deeper than the sea, pushing back as she follows into the dark forest.
Al'Zahra follows like a feather pretending not to be a noose made out golden chain-link.
