The Portal
07-26-2017, 04:38 AM
Zahra & Ilham
It was pride that turned angels into devils
He questioned her guilt, that plaguing, septic wound of recollection she felt and believed with every beat of her heart; while her voice failed to answer, she breathed, “yes.” Her thoughts submited to the mellow movement of his tone weakly, freely, as she buried her bloodshot stare into the soupy earth beneath.
"I remember it," larynx better stated, mumbled (still below that steady drone of the rain). But what did she remember? It was the wrath and ruin of the shrill, frightened voice which lashed so violently across the slumped corpse of gilt piebald, the crowd of sombre eyes that glared stupidly back, the golden-walled tomb and the huge stone which had sealed the Gallant inside. Zahra remembered the mare with the badger face who offered forth a beloved feather from his wing - images that had been seared into very lens of each eye.
Or had they?
To the weeping child’s astonishment, he, the stranger, smoothed the frayed air with a gently placed rebuttal - he mentioned that the once ruler had been his acquaintance, that he knew, the story. Unnerved and rightly intimidated (for her father was well loved, revered, ascended), feathered limbs forced in closer and her monochrome frame shrank by half; ears slipped rearward, curved crest sank and pallid tail tucked - all warily.
Guardedly she assessed the expression written upon those dark, chiselled features. There was a softness about him, in his posture, a queer strength and fortitude, that fed her very meek desire to linger; uncomfortable and confused, she fidgeted across muddy, mismatched toes, suddenly unwilling to meet his sun-scorched eye. Lies… Warring discord flared through her chest, hot and overbearing. Who was he to challenge the truth of her identity? Tears began again to amass in those lagging, raw reservoirs and as their lashed banks broke, she fastened a mask of contempt (a defensive, protective shield) across her face. She was vulnerable and this stake of acquittal which he brandished before her, felt awfully like a trap.
But her resolve, that buring ire, was once more challenged as he inched deliberately forward.
Warmth melded through the words that followed, that led his advance, and she swayed awkwardly, stiffly, with a face turned insecurely from his lure. Why was he asking? Why did he care? Her empty, angry gut twisted with anticipation, apprehension towards his unapparent motivation. Behind her, sodden threads swung, their yellowed ends licking across each coiled thigh.
"Wh…who are you?" She retorts with a sniff, and though she worked to resist the strange charm about him, his dominant stance begged for more. "I..." I Don’t know? His gaze was resilient, unwavering; waiting…
Zahra drew a shallow breath.
As she began to speak, that preoccupied focus, vested away in the distance (anywhere but the present), slumped to the ground with all of the force of an avalanche; so cataclysmic was the pain he seemed so intent to discover, to unleash, that she felt a sense of fatigued surrender wash through her. It was all too much. "Da wouldn’t know me," she mewed finally, sorrowfully, hopelessly; ashamed of the creature - the shell - that she’d become.
