A trecherous thought is blooming in her (or maybe it's a hundred of such thoughts rising in vines through her mind). It grows roots, and petals, and it's blooming under the dark ash sky. The vowels of it are whispered in magic and the echo of her nightmares that are still full of fang and hornets. And maybe that's all her mind is now, a tangle of trechery and rage that's choking out the life of every story she used to know.
Because Isra is looking at that black-death looming and the seeds pouring off her flesh like the blood of the first garden. She is looking and and looking. She's wondering what is stopping them from remaking it all; what's stopping them from tearing out each unholy and terrible thing from this world? She could make an island out of the sea he can push back. She could make seeds from sand. Isra could grow a garden in a wasteland if she wanted to and Asterion could water the roots.
Maybe she's thinking that there is nothing to stop her from becoming as terrible as she needs to be to make all that is evil in this world tremble.
And then maybe she's thinking about love.
So she only leans against him and traces the hollow curve of his throat until she can feel the drumbeat of his heart against her nose. Isra closes her teeth around the treachery boiling at the back of her throat like acid (and she closes her trublent ocean eyes until she can see only blackness, only nothing, only the ink).
“Come what may.” She echoes against the hollow of his chest, and she can't help but think it feels like lying. Death his not coming today, or maybe ever because every drop of dangerous magic in her blood is boiling, and smoldering, and begging for a flame.
Not today.
@Asterion
