I will conquer.
Had she known — had she seen and known the fate that was to partake of her — had she
felt the covetous fangs of sand gnawing, famished, into her flesh, would she have ran? Would she have chiseled arteries in the wake of her alarm, her desperation to be liberated? But there was so much
affection here, it overwhelmed her, tore her nearly asunder. And all by such a small declaration! How deplorably lonely she had been, how
long, how long she had aspired to be the daughter of Azzaron, instead of a thief; a villain, a monster. Mother had loved him, and Azarel, and Destry — hadn’t that been her accusation? Hadn’t Destry presumed mother a traitor? A swindler, like
father. Jealousy was a vicious companion indeed, for if she would have been of the same begetter as they, she would have very nearly rejoiced in his death; something so terrible even Azarel loathed to have told it — rather than live as she had, with the hatred she felt so keenly laden at her spine.
But
oh, oh, this was love, this dangerous vulnerability cheerfully and readily given to someone else, and she wished she could
speak, except there seemed to be a mountain in her way and the thunder grew, and
grew, resounding through every vein, every follicle. The illustration before her dims with something else, it fissures and peels away, and for a horrifying moment she feels the sensation of
falling, falling,
“Destry! W-wait— I love—”
A murkiness too deep to see by drapes itself over her; swaddles her, and she cries out in fear, for the rumbling had arose the roaring of a
beast, so familiar, so
dear and so
terrifying, so atrocious a sound as to hope to never hear it again. There are lashes in her skin if she were let slip the recollection (anamnesis) she so yearned to be washed in the river Lethe. For how long she was there, she wasn’t certain; merely that she knew if she stayed, she would sink so thoroughly beneath its apathy as to never see the light of day again; and when sight came again, when achingly recognizable sand dunes extended as far as she could
possibly see, she was blinded by their brilliance and simultaneously made
sick with the abruptness of the vision before her.
He looks so much like he always had, a youthful simpler of vigor and courage and strength, there was no crown carved from treachery and deceit upon his forehead; no cape as crimson as the blood that marred his throne. Aslan coiled about his cannons so
fondly, and he was as vivid as she remembered, wreathed in a sea of
gilt, as warm and true as his heart, oh, sweet
Aslan. Her playmate — later, her rescuer. The previous apparitions she had faced seethed briefly in her mind, and then wisped away, lost in a hallucinogenic miasma of compliance. She was
home, and she would never be furious at him again for as long as she yet
lived, surely she wouldn’t!
“Brother,” she laughed, laughed as if she were a mere child, so giddy was she in her elation at the sight of him,
“I have been haunted by the strangest dreams…”
And then something to the right of her caught her eye, and with good humor she turned to meet the shade fully, only to see with a burgeoning grin it was
mother, as well as she had ever looked; perhaps as well as she had seen her since they had left the Falls, healthy and sensible, if a little grim. But her gaze is hearty, and when she speaks, it is with charity.
“Your gaiety must temper itself, dear. We have far to travel to the west, and the Ashary is vast and barren.”
“As if any lonely desert could sabotage us when we are together! And I daresay Dezba will find the pack rats rather edible,” Cahira replied with merriment afoot. But there is something
else, something pestering her mind, and as she glances about curiously, a familiar chattering and press of sleek fur at her heels caught her attention. Downwards her gaze went, and there, imperturbable as always, she met the chilly lead of Nótt’s eyes. From within his coat a glossy, fluid shape darted out, undoubtedly to find a better vantage point; and she knew immediately who it must be.
“Dagr!” She cried, lunging earthward to embrace them both,
“Nótt! By Fate’s mercies I have missed you — both of you! For in my nightmares I thought I had lost you.” Dagr simply beams, but Nótt draws away from her, distressed by the scrutiny.
“You know we’d never leave you,” he gently admonishes.
“Of course I do! But it all seemed… so real.” Suddenly aware of the stillness of her sibling, she turned, baffled by his muteness. Azarel had done many things, though missing a chance to simper and talk were little among them.
“Brother? Whatever is the matter with you today?” Her tone rather lowered with concern.
“Have you caught ill?”
@Azarel
Halcyon Flats
