I will conquer.
The frightful, anguished blare of the creature as it was felled, the caterwaul of resentment and passion and distress, melted the desperate pound of her heart inside of her ribcage into a amalgam of dread and,
yes, pity; compassion for this thing which had sought her death so willingly, so cruelly, would this have been better, would it have lived had she waited, had she restrained the urge to attack, to maim? But even as her rapier sinks into spongy flesh, even as something damp and warm; sticky crimson dapples her face with blotches, even as she cries with shock and wrenches, yanks away from the being she has now slaughtered, eyes wide and rimmed white, her labored breath takes in air laden with acrid, pitch smoke; clouds of misery and enmity which settle into her like barbs, anchors, and then she is weightless inside oblivion.
And, oh, what rapture! To consign into the heavenly tides of the river Lethe, to be swept up, caught in the tide of a sea she cannot swim, some imperceptible wash of tired affection roaring in her ears like waves careening into rock and sand, and for a moment when her weakened mind recalls Shahrokh and Dallilja and duties and family she struggles—what would Dallilja do without her? Or wretched, sweet Shahrokh, sightless; alone? What would mother think if she just, gave in—and then the moment is over and she’s drowning. The world drifts calmly away, lazily, as if it has little else to do; and if some basic, natural urge had not roused her alarm when the jaguar had snarled, had not warned her fear instinct to be vigil,
something is here, she may’ve happily succumbed to the charms the Walker had wrought, faux peace. Yet even then, so muddled and feeling as though she had come to from a nice slumber, she couldn’t turn fetlocks and flee, as she very much ought have, but instead merely blinked drowsily at the jaguar, at her liberator; with bland intrigue. The monster lying slain on the ground before her seems far-flung and imaginary, a product of her overwrought mind, and with a lethargic slur she mumbles,
“Dezba? Where’s mother? Where’s Aza…"
Azarel. The battle at Ashary, the King, dead. Her brother—
The last fragments of tantalizing serenity dissolve away like smoke, like the sickly smoke that had billowed from the Walker’s tormented scream, and suddenly she is startlingly awake; though wholly uncertain of her surroundings. Had she made it into Mowupia? All she knew is she had been running, running and then…
and then? She recalls with vivid spasms in her chest the words she’d howled at Azarel, words intended to gouge, to crush; the way he’d crushed her. And dear Fate, how she
regretted it, not her words—they’d been true, or at least, she thinks they had, could she truly hate Azarel?—she regrets the look on his face once she’d said them. But everything from then to now seems a dim blur, a dream, where was Nótt? He’d been hurt, she feels his pain, and
Dagr; why was he so distant, so mute? Ambling forwards on wobbly legs, she tumbles desperately towards the only familiar thing here; so foolishly, so childishly,
“Dezba? Did mother escape?” There is heartache in her where her companions should be and she chokes, stumbles through sentences, weaving poorly ornamented words,
“N-Nótt and D-D-Dagr… Dezb-ba, why does… it hurt, w-where are they Dez-Dezba?”
Something is wrong. Even through her fuzzy, watery gaze she knows it, all the lines and grooves on Dezba’s face are off; somehow, the fur surging backwards in voracity and greed, a violence she has never seen crinkling the jaguar’s maw before. Not at her.
Never at her. And she seems so tall, something Cahira hadn’t thought since she’d been a filly, but,
but this had to be Dezba, it
had to be, and her lip trembles traitorously,
“Dezba?”
And then Dezba leapt at her.
Had it been up to her tumultuous psyche and not flesh, primal, involuntary urge to wheel with her croup facing the encroaching jaguar; she would very likely have been dead, the bare line of her jugular naked to its teeth, but her instincts once again take hold, control, domineer.
Fight, every synapsis wails (and how can she, her own mother),
FIGHT, and this time she doesn’t have a choice. Her hooves leave the earth and she strikes, wildly,
madly, if Dezba didn’t eat her, the revulsion and horror foaming up inside her would, she’d kicked at Dezba, Dezba, mother’s soul; and she croaks with growing despair,
“Please—”
(
I love you, rests unsaid, veiled in the inflection of her voice, the frailty in her next kick, please,
I’ll be better, I’ll do anything,
just stop, please,
stop.)
@
Kratos
A/N: Huh. That happened! xD Please feel free to harm her however you would like, Dingo! She needs some pain so she can wake up from the temporary halves of her amnesia. And my apologies for being late, Harvey affected my area and I've only recently managed to write a reply to your post, may be a little rusty!
Rainforest Cliffs
