Her eyes catch the vision of the dragon as he dives between them. Katniss eyes him curiously for she has only seen creatures like him that were far larger in size. She remembers one that towered over her, his head far bigger than even her own body. He could have swallowed her in one bite, his fires charred her instantly. But this dragon is small, and admittedly, somewhat cute as he lays curled into a mountain of fabrics.
It is the steady rhythm of Isra’s steps against the cobblestone that draw her attention back to the Queen of the Night Court. She hears the respectable words that come from her lips and Katniss is unsure if she means them. Such greetings demanded an answer and most, she had found, gave out what they thought needed to be said. Rarely did she come across someone who was truly genuine. She admittedly does not know Isra well enough to decide whether or not she speaks true.
Her eyes remain soft, her posture relaxed even though she is anything but relaxed inside. Her body is strumming with pent-up energy that she cannot seem to displace. She longs for battle, something that would take her mind off the events surrounding her entrance into this land. Perhaps she should spar – perhaps it might take her mind off the thoughts that run rampant, if only for a moment.
As Isra speaks, her eyes soften even more, as if she pities the other. What had these gods done that had caused the people here to fear newcomers rather than welcome them? Surely it was something great. “Your gods are strange to me…for where I came from, the gods generally brought peace and a reason for living…” She had only seen death and pain when it needed to occur. Never had she seen mindless actions that only brought skepticism and distrust.
At the request of the queen to talk with her, Katniss finds the nod easy. It would do her some good to talk. She longed for easy conversation. It had come easy with Asterion. Perhaps it would come easy with Isra in time.
She turns in the direction of Isra’s heading and slowly, her steps fall into line with the queen’s. She does not feel it prudent to tell the queen too much of her life-story for so many things that dwell in it and not all of them happy. Most of her memories are only to weigh heavily on her heart, not on the hearts of others. She sighs, the breath leaving her lungs and it almost appears as though a burden has been lifted from her shoulders. “I was born in a land called Nocturne. My mother was a kelpie…but the kindest you shall ever meet. She was a conscientious objector, choosing not to fight for her kingdom on principle. So I was born to fight for her. It was an easy, fulfilling life.” The scars that riddled her body were proof enough that she had seen many years of combat. The pain tucked away behind her eyes told a story her words would never be able to tell.
“I lived there for many years, six or so…” She had lost count of the years. All she knew was that she had left her kingdom after she had abandoned the two children she had bore from her own womb. She had tried to be their queen, but the guilt of her treachery had weighed too heavily on her and so she had left. But she did not tell all of this to Isra. That was a personal pain that she had only shared with Metaphor. Only he had drawn those words from her lips.
Her steps remain steady as her thoughts reflect on her life. In reality, she’s sorting through what she chooses to tell her queen. “…and then I moved to a land we called The Rift. I found purpose there…and much more.” Her heart ached for Elysian, for those that she sheltered and led. But most importantly, her heart ached for Metaphor. “That land was destroyed by magic, I would suppose. And so I am here. My story is not that interesting.” Ah…but perhaps it would be if the mare opened up about her queenships, her lover, or her children. But those were not the bedtime stories Isra wanted to hear.
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