Mortality.
At the time, she did not know if a demigod could die. She did not know if her father was, in fact, a demigod. The son of the Fire Lord and his Firebird, the whispers said. Once, she dared ask him. Zjarri's terrible silence and furious gaze was more terrifying than his usual outbursts of anger, and she never asked again. They say the children of the gods bleed golden blood...did you, Father? Did you bleed gold as you burned? She didn't know a lot of things, back then, but those gods were dead and gone, in a world half the galaxy away where magic had thrived in every living being (except yourself, you idiot girl), but whatever blood ran through her father's veins may as well have been gasoline, for all the good it did him.
Demigod or not, mortality was his undoing.
He burned as easily as dry grass in the wind.
As the young griffin recoiled suddenly, Itzal started with a surprised snarl, fur standing on end as he eyed the hybrid creature venomously before stalking a few paces away in a disdainful manner. Yseulte lifted her cheek from the mare's feverish skin, feeling the body against her tremble and quiver with all the strength of a fledgling sparrow testing its frail wings for the first time. Whether due to fright, weakness, or injury, Yseulte could not tell. At least the stranger had the strength to do so; it was a good sign. Perhaps she had mistaken her delicate condition, and the smaller mare was not so very delicate after all.
The damsel murmured something. The whispered hush that fell from her lips was no louder the gentle thrum of butterfly wings. The second time, Yseulte heard properly, and blinked in silent surprise. I am mortal.. "Yes," Yseulte replied sadly, thinking of her father and how he had fancied himself invincible. "More deadly than any illness, I'd say. There is no cure for a bad case of mortality, unfortunately."
Like a late springtime orchid, a wry smile bloomed on her lips orchid, but quickly faded, as if the petals of her smile fell one by one beneath the onslaught of winter. Berian? No, I am not your beloved Berian, no more than you are my summer-eyed Torasin or my King of Thieves. She sincerely hoped the mare was not hallucinating—that would not bode well with the cold deepening by the moment and the darkness ever present.
The mare attempted to struggle to her hooves, her legs trembling like desperate autumn leaves clinging to the last threads of life. Yseulte thought she might manage it, but the stranger collapsed into a sigh of soft snow, weaker than a newborn babe. Yseulte slowly rose to her own hooves, ignoring the aching pain throbbing in her crippled leg as she stood over the mare, her breath unfurling in pale, silver serpents before her. Blood ran like red ribbons across the damsel's fine legs and beaded her throat like a necklace of rubies, but for all that blood, Yseulte's eyes could not identify the source of it all. How peculiar. Regeneration magic, perhaps? No, that couldn't be right. Her own magic, charmspeak, was about as charming as a dead weasel in this darkness.
Perhaps there was more to this mortal stranger that met the eye.
Hesper and Otienu. Yseulte inclined her head slightly, first to the mare, then to her young companion. Itzal snorted audibly somewhere nearby, obviously affronted, but by what, only the gods knew. Everything affronted Itzal. "I am Yseulte, and this is Itzal. Wherever you came from, Hespera, it is behind you. You are in Helovia, now," she said abruptly. There was no time for exchanging pleasantries in this damned cold. Yseulte glanced to the sky, as if looking for something. But what? "The sun never rises here," she said bitterly. Her cool eyes returned to the mare; the grief momentarily present on her face was replaced by an iron gaze full of purpose. "We cannot stay here—the wolves will be here soon. As diseased as we are with mortality, such a meeting would not end well for us, I can promise you." Unless Osiris manages to pop out of the bushes, she though sourly to herself. Yseulte lowered her head and nudged the mare's trembling shoulder. Her voice softened. "You must get up. I will help you walk, and then we may talk more." |
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
