Things will never go the way that the mind wishes for them to, and Sikeax, of all the minds in this world, should be the one most knowledgeable in this. Logic, or Hobgoblin had warned her. And had she listened to his commands to give this up? No, because she is blind and has always been, regardless of how desperate she is in trying to keep the clouds away from her sky blue eyes.
The colour happens to draw them in like flies to a carcass.
They find themselves at the opposite end of wide eyes, Sikeax suddenly wearing the discomfort of this situation on her heart, so far from the usual interactions and driven into seclusion that now faced with company, she finds herself with a loss of words. Hobgoblin has nothing, but this is not out of the ordinary. Thunderbird, the name he has decided upon in his head and will continue with regardless of knowledge, has no specific points of interest.
But then again, he’s never come to care for those met in these woods. They are so little met that he cannot even bring them the courtesy of memory if they so happen to reappear later in life.
It is her actions that finally win the attention of him, and whether not she shows aggression or fear or any kind of emotion towards them in specific(for he can't tell; he has no reason to be able to read emotions), the expression that she displays is enough for him to discover purpose.
“Thunderbird weak.”
There is the brief flashing of a memory of Amara in her head, bursting in like a firework igniting in the night. He envisions something within her line of sight, but not close enough for her reach, tempting Sikeax with mouth already parted into a gaping hole of nothingness, stepping forward before snapping it shut. Head-bobbing follows in pursuit. Humor runs through her like water in a river, empty, meaningless as he cackles his enjoyment into reality.
“Ignore him.” Stiffness herds the life in her words into a corner, strangles it so it sounds dull and soft, mother’s tone like she is telling one of her children the facts of life so they will carry into the future. A head cranks around at an angle so that what would be his muzzle is turned to her own, firefly light coloured in blood in endless pits digging further into her as they stare.
“You want company. Entertain.” There is a pressure to his tone that makes her physically scrunch her lips at him, who, with his careless attitude, chooses to ignore.
Their company’s choice of response leaves the both of them with nothing to move on. Lazily raised brows hover above blue eyes cast away, head turning in unison with her brother at the sight of a past choice of company.
Hobgoblin doesn’t remember; she doesn’t care.
Yet against how she tells herself not to, along with her brother, she can’t help but bring herself into the light at her title. It brings who she is back to the surface like it must gasp for air, having lost its ability to breathe underwater with her. She shames it just as Hobgoblin does, regardless of how he himself cannot breathe with her.
He’s willing to be hypocritical at any time of the day, any day of the year beneath both the moon and sun. It kills their privacy and transparency like an idiot with a gun, an untrained general with too much power and no care for the living, even for those below him who serve them with their entire existence in this world, their tie to life.
Just like Hobgoblin himself, careless.
Stones from mountains that climb the sky move to swallow the softness in her eyes if it was ever there, collecting the brows above them into storm clouds. “Don’t call me that.” Hard, straightforward, a small breath of emotion added in as her typically vibrant voice gasps for air, drowning, pleading with a distant, faded voice that says just don't, let me live this way.
“I don’t want to be reminded of how that came to be.”
There is no escape from the lack of ghostliness in the threshold. It functions as if it births this entire world to what it is, that death and anything associated with the absence of knowledge is sin. They pass names and homes around like this is the grandest of friendships, like they have spoken for hours on end only to discover that alongside one another they co-exist perfectly.
It ties a knot in her stomach. Hobgoblin snorts with whatever air that is in his lungs, if he happens to have them. She can't really be sure herself.
“No brains.”
She hates to agree with him, but exceptions have to be made. This won’t be an exception for the two making up her company.
“Leave.”
Urgency clasps the hand of the aggression in his voice. Together, they run unified fingers along the line of her spine with cactus needles etched into their skin, tipped with ice. She can’t make a lick of sense from it.
‘Sia.’
None of it is felt or acknowledged in her head as it happens, all of which consists of the following: a quick gasp that makes itself far too audible, the widening of her eyes until they can’t go any further and the speed in the movement of her horned skull, the surprise painted over the empty canvas of her face, because there stands Sacre, warmth in his tone that she has almost forgotten in the past seasons, ushering out a name that either brings forth fear and worry of the unforeseeable future or stress hugging comfort, just scared, because what if they know? What if they know that she is a sin, that nothing will change what she has become and that this is now her fate?
Instinct wails out of lack of knowledge that this is the time to go, that he doesn’t need to know anything. She can live her life out knowing that at least one of her childhood friends still loves her despite the horrors she has committed in the past.
“Sacre,” She must look like a bitch, now that she greets him so lovingly. “I missed you.”
“Don’t.”
Pain hits her like a freight train. Hobgoblin, the beast, the monster who slays and the one who used her position in power to make use of his selfish wants, is her logic, her instinct, her second, more rational brain in these moments.
It hurts just a bit more violently and deeply because isn’t that how fucked up life is now?
The final man is the one that sets her into motion. Hate is burning a hole within, all over the place but at the same time enclosed to one specific place, in that weird way that everything aches but somehow feels localized, as if to fit into her soul.
Wherever it is.
But she can’t stay here any longer. Her soul(now consisting of Hobgoblin) is on fire, her fears are alive and moving, breathing, taking in air that she could be breathing and hunting her down in broad daylight because she’s got nothing to fear in the dark anymore. The real monsters are living in the day now.
She’s got nothing to give, regardless of how happy she is to see Sacre and how much she wishes to spend just a few more seconds with him. This is all just useless.
Like you as a Sultana.
“NO.”
He is an explosion in hypothetical ears.
“You go.” Soft, because her pain is his pain, the agony of the memory of her time as a Sultana and the putdown enough to make him crumble into his own misery because in his head, Sikeax is the best Sultana he's ever going to know, and the only one he ever will. She has set every standard that has ever been for him without even knowing it, and while she'll never know it, she's the best thing in his this world.
But is it good to listen to instinct and logic when who is at the wheel of that vehicle is the embodiment of everything that she has strived not to be and always feared, glued to her soul so tightly that there’s no escape outside of death and even that can’t tell her what will happen without him? It is not to say that Hobgoblin knows her just as much as she knows herself and that she likes to lead herself to believe that she knows him in the same way but in a different sense, but it is in the end that there is one question left to answer: Does Hobgoblin have enough compassion and even love for her to do such a thing?
She can’t even bring herself to fathom answering that. He’s listening, and he’ll never own up if she puts it in her thoughts. The end of that attempt can be, and will be, as far as she is concerned, teeth and nail, dirtied up with her flesh in another one of their outbursts.
Let’s end this.
A spark of agreement ignites and abruptly fades in their shared dark room.
“I can tell you firsthand that there is nothing left in the Dragon’s Throat but a whore who believes a dead man’s cock is her right to the throne and a blind mob that will lash out at anything that they perceive as wrong, with or without logic. Don’t go back.”
Now.
“Now?”
Yes.

OOC: please just tag me when it's my turn to post! Sikeax will probs be leaving in this next post, but I can't be sure. She's weird like that.
"speak"