Zjarri could not always be with her.
For long periods of time, he would often be away. On "grown-up business" he would say, but she knew better. She knew the destruction and devastation he caused among the kingdoms, bringing war and death in his wake when there could be peace. He did not fancy the kingdom life for Yseulte, and so left her in the care of his beloved twin sister, the serene, violet-eyed Makenna in the deep of the desert among her grandmother's fighting warrior women. The White Twins were something to behold in Liridon, son and daughter of the powerful Fire Lord and his Firebird, both born pale and cold as the north, but with skin more scorching than the belly of a volcano. They were halves to make each other whole—Makenna's water to Zjarri's fire, her peace to his rage. As Zjarri wished, the fiery Donieta women raised Yseulte in the depths of their desert, flat and wild as the eye could see.
And so it was only natural that Yseutle hated trees—truly hated them. She could not see the endless sky, could not feel the warmth of the sun on her back. Not that it mattered, anyhow, as everlasting darkness had settled across the sky, draping Helovia in a cloak fashioned from night, shadow, and cold. The sun never rose in the east, it did not set in the west. It never rose at all. The cool, twisting darkness and the labyrinth of trees was much more suited to Itzal's slinking, stalking ways. But struggling through the wild depths of the tangled woods where dark things slumbered was the only way to recruit future sisters, and so stumble blindly through the darkness after Itzal she did.
Her heart was glad when Itzal snarled to notify her of company ahead. The Threshold was usually alive with sweet meadow lark song and the murmur of wind through the ferns, but in this blackness, the somber forest was stiff, silent, and dead. And so she approached the youth carefully, slowly, easing into the company of the young stranger. The dimness of the forest cast the equine in a shroud of murky darkness, but she could only just trace the outline of a graceful, undeveloped body with all the vulnerability of youth. She was a lovely little thing, with a pretty face pale as the moon and precious as a wild daisy, but her shoulders were strong and her gaze bold and fearless. And those eyes...eyes so old and wise for such a young face.
"You are alone," she noted with silent approval, appraising the youngster with a cool gaze—ever the iron maiden as she contemplated the girl, searching for flaws, weaknesses, strengths; anything that would give Yseulte the knowledge she desperately sought. She was newer to this recruiting game than most, but it came natural enough. "My name is Yseulte, and that is Itzal." She motioned to the tiger with a flick of her tail. "I am Vasílissa of the Valkyries. We are an independent sisterhood; free of men and the rule of kingdoms. You would do well among us, I think." |
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