The missing Queen must have no lover to speak impassioned words for her – or perhaps this General is her lover, Ianthe hardly thinks it matters what station this mare occupied in the Queen’s life – but as voices rise out in calls and questions and offering, it is hard to miss that the Queen is very much beloved. It’s strange, standing amongst a crowd nearly rioting in their eagerness when she feels no little dispassion for the missing monarch and her dead foot soldier.
It is disquieting to stand amongst these people at all, instead of hover high in the air with her kin. On the ground, the concern these heretics nurture is nearly a physical entity, at first swirling about her ankles like a quiet breeze before rising into a tempest all at once. She aches with it, tries to bat it from her with a flick of her tail and a twitch of her skin, but it stays persistent. She does not understand.
A monarch is missing, and she has no lover to mourn her, no children to watch for her. This General speaks well, and when she called the court answered. Why then is the take-over not a simple thing? Why then do they insist on clinging to the past? Members come and go as they please, why should leaders be restricted from doing the same? Members fall from the sky as the gods and situations merit, why do they weep for her?
But they do. Oh, how they miss her! They carry on and prepare for war where Ianthe has only seen skirmishes. Their missing leader riles them, unites them, and she can only watch as one after another steps forward to offer their services. There will be blood, she thinks, and wants to turn away.
But the sunrise flares through this General until she is a mouthpiece, a prophet, and she asks, pleads, demands. But Helios combs his fingers through her feathers until she is wreathed in rage and the dawn of a new day – a new age – and others answer her call. But Ianthe’s heart drums in her ears as she at last takes a single step forward, toeing the shadows the General casts, and embraces her fate.
“I know not how to fight on land, but I will learn. Direct me.” Ianthe can do no less for her gods.
It is disquieting to stand amongst these people at all, instead of hover high in the air with her kin. On the ground, the concern these heretics nurture is nearly a physical entity, at first swirling about her ankles like a quiet breeze before rising into a tempest all at once. She aches with it, tries to bat it from her with a flick of her tail and a twitch of her skin, but it stays persistent. She does not understand.
A monarch is missing, and she has no lover to mourn her, no children to watch for her. This General speaks well, and when she called the court answered. Why then is the take-over not a simple thing? Why then do they insist on clinging to the past? Members come and go as they please, why should leaders be restricted from doing the same? Members fall from the sky as the gods and situations merit, why do they weep for her?
But they do. Oh, how they miss her! They carry on and prepare for war where Ianthe has only seen skirmishes. Their missing leader riles them, unites them, and she can only watch as one after another steps forward to offer their services. There will be blood, she thinks, and wants to turn away.
But the sunrise flares through this General until she is a mouthpiece, a prophet, and she asks, pleads, demands. But Helios combs his fingers through her feathers until she is wreathed in rage and the dawn of a new day – a new age – and others answer her call. But Ianthe’s heart drums in her ears as she at last takes a single step forward, toeing the shadows the General casts, and embraces her fate.
“I know not how to fight on land, but I will learn. Direct me.” Ianthe can do no less for her gods.
