Riptide Isles
Zahra & Ilham
It was pride that turned angels into devils
Lost in the dankest, darkest recesses of Zahra’s seldom spoken subconscious, was hidden a myriad of stories and memoirs stemming from finer, brighter life-moments when she had been but a fat and taintless whelp under care of doting, loving parents. Many of these had been layered over by the filth and failure of the Starry-Eyed’s cold version of her own philosophy; cold truths and hard learnings which needn’t have become the reality of the pure hearted babe. Though there was effort made to conceal that suffering (at least sturdy enough to stand through those first few years of her life), the dying mare had promised her daughter a lifetime of confused, perverted memories, a history that was hardly her own, and a curse of cognitive dysfunction, imbalance.
She stood there, upon the beach, confident to observe the queer painted man beside her while his attention was caught by the measly gift she had offered.
It was a strange discomfort that swept through her; both resignation and resistance, for she remembered not a stallion so tall-looking or haggard. Of course, Zahra wanted to believe that this was her father, the Gallant, the conscionable warrior who instilled a love of prayer and heavenly faith in her heart; he who’s reputation shone with all of the radiance of a strong and fair leader, who she loved so dearly. This one, this skeleton, seemed not the same; there was something not right. There was a skeptical, hurt part within her - judging, and mistrustful - that wanted him to prove himself; to shake the earth beneath her feet or turn those lapping waves into gold. She wanted to see him rise from whatever squaller had impaired him, to stand broad and burly, like she knew he had been.
Nevertheless, she hid on beneath a valid mask of thin-lipped remorse, and smiled quietly (for her intention, in that respect, had been very honest); in turn, the mysterious man murmured the word - the name - she had baited for, and a sliver of warmth carved its path into the icy relic of her soul.
His gracious murmur ventured through the stagnant air stiff between them and his golden, depthless eye snared her own black-centred copy for a split second before it fled out to sea. "Aye..." she returned simply, softly, feeling the press of obligation more so than sociability.
As the moments ticked by - while he collected the delicate craft from the sod, and stowed it as he wanted - Zahra strained to crack through the chaos of her past and discover some other tidbit that might assist their plight. It was meditation which never brought peace, and she preferred by all measure, to push the flood of suffering back into the corners out of sight; thankfully, his voice severed her concentration and she pulled back her distant eyes to examine his face. "Who?" she queried vaguely, unsure where or not her father had been alive to meet her beloved siblings. "Ilham," carefully, slowly, but the more she pressed the skewed memories from that time, the less inclined she felt, to believe that he had. "She came after…"
