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 It seemed no matter where she wandered, she had to compose funeral hymns and melancholy laments, and the lithe nightingale was simply tired, haggard, and drained from all of the loss. There’d be no song from her today: the dead had already been consumed in embers and ashes. When would it end? When would it fall apart? When would they finally find the beasts, the monsters, the behemoths whom quartered, who designed, who plotted, and managed to tear and maim beloved citizens? When would they be safe? How far did they have to go? The questions never stopped and all her mind could do was reel amidst the horrors, the terrors, the condemnations of strong, enduring spirits. Even when she and Imogen were late to the gathering, weren’t quick enough to have seen her in the flesh one more time, she recognized the figures surrounding the pyre, the inferno, the blaze, and knew who it was. Their proud Empress, dark and twisted, malignant and conflicted, fallen and wasted on the outcrops (she’d healed her, she’d mended her, she’d assuaged her; on the outskirts of the caves, watched her cretin-essence alter and change again, urge her to find dominance, supremacy, return to her former self: had she even had the time to find those missing pieces?) - Psyche. A tragic end to a powerful figure, a cloaked viper, a diligent cobra, a kiss from reptilian interludes - the Time Mender looked away from the crowd and at the crisp snakeskin nearby, hanging her head again, composing and gathering herself when every single time she approached a body her heart and hope weakened just a smidgen, just a minute amount. Why couldn’t they stop them? Hadn’t there been enough clues? Hadn’t there been enough discoveries? Hadn’t there been enough death? How much more would they have to bear and withstand, before justice was christened? What darker traces still lurked outside these heavenly walls? Lena</style> |
