The Portal
Zahra & Ilham
It was pride that turned angels into devils
There was a furious flame in her eyes, hurt beyond words, "my father… is dead!" The undertone wavered and wobbled with wretched accusation, though she held his queer, coloured (uncanny), eye with remorseless conviction. "I sealed that fate a long time ago." The latter was scarcely a whisper above the murmur of rainfall, burdened noticeably by the unimaginable guilt she had carried for the years since his passing.
The Gallant’s bones lay now, entombed below the ruins of his father’s world.
What would he think of his golden-child now?
He was nothing.
Trembling, soggy lips lowered involuntarily to brush against the cold metal memory she wore in his stead. No warmth stemmed from its roots to comfort her now, no breath of that renowned forgiveness; even memory of his beloved face had become but a disfigured fog in the shadow of much louder self-loathing. The struggling girl felt the potent surge of toxic disappointment boil in her veins, numbing all sensibility - such was the power of the blackness long suffered - and with a sharp snap of her neck, Zahra pulled free from the garment.
There had been a time, years ago, that she and Zero had gazed upon the stew of bubbling lava by Helovia’s heart; perhaps she should have thrown the collar, the curse, and destroyed it when the weight had first grown unbearable across her shoulders. She was weak spirited though then, still now, as flimsy as the cold, crystal veil that hissed on down from the sky.
The stallion stood at last solidly, hardly taller than she, and his quiet, meditative aura unsettled her to the core. It occurred to her to leave, to vanish - to evaporate into the aether and avoid this confrontation - but those legs beneath her convulsing, sobbing wreck stood with stubborn resolution against her desire, forcing the heartbroken girl to endure.
Through the glaze of molten, welled-up emotion, she could see suggestions of colour against his washed black face, gold? Perhaps… a flicker of suggestion that was easily swiped by the antagonistic side of her within. There were other mutterings of familiarity too, which beckoned interest to peel from the floor; like a bath, the water constantly cleansed him, revealing snippets of the character lurking beneath sickness and soil.
With a reluctant eye, she watched him, snivelling still bitterly, filled to the brim with enough resentment for them both.
Note to Admin: Confess guilt of a crime that she did not commit.
