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the happy ending depends, of course...
The King had been with his son, watching him learn of his magic, when he had seen the flash of rose-ivory flicker at the edges of his vision. Orithia, ever present around his child— perhaps other men would find it odd or irritatiing. Other men with different pasts who lacked the understanding and kinship with his njiwa. Instead, the Elephant King felt assured that the desert dove kept watch over his Hawezi—it was a comfort to know that the fierce rose kept the young, precious life safe.
So, it was with surprise that when his navy gaze flicked to the movement of peach and cream that it found the woman fleeing. Onyx brows raised, concern splintering the happy contentment his son had warmed into his navy gaze. The erratic movements, the frantic beats, the snapping of tree limbs beneath her slender, powerful wings— something was amiss with his dove.
So, with muttered excuses, he followed, leaving his son with his mother. Although he fell far behind Orithia’s frenzied flight. Still, his canter pushed to a gallop, thick limbs churning into the live soil of Birdsong. It was a long flight, and an even longer run, but his cream and onyx limbs carried his heavy frame through the trees, the smaller trees at the forest’s periphery whipping welts and snapping beneath the brunt of his gallop.
He slowed, ears swiveling as he tried to locate the sound of wingbeats and breaking limbs— but instead the sound of splashes and sobbing found his black-rimmed funnels. Face creases further, pinching his brow and hastening his hooves, as he following the faint sounds of water and heartbreak. What was wrong?
His ears lay back the moment he sees her. The floating flowers, now the same color as her scrubbed-raw skin, decorate the pool of the woman’s sacrificial purity. There was no deliverance to be found beneath these dark, frigid water that swallowed her. His hide flinches at the sudden, piercing keen that comes from the fierce dove— so unlike any sound he has ever heard from her.
”Orithia,” his tone is firm, concern sharpening his his voice around her name— he is already knee-deep in the petal-littered pool. She is so deep in the water, so submerged are her wings— how easily they would weight her beneath the surface. “Njiwa,” his voice is softer, now, as his neck stretches and his head reaches out towards hers, “please, come out of the water.”
So, it was with surprise that when his navy gaze flicked to the movement of peach and cream that it found the woman fleeing. Onyx brows raised, concern splintering the happy contentment his son had warmed into his navy gaze. The erratic movements, the frantic beats, the snapping of tree limbs beneath her slender, powerful wings— something was amiss with his dove.
So, with muttered excuses, he followed, leaving his son with his mother. Although he fell far behind Orithia’s frenzied flight. Still, his canter pushed to a gallop, thick limbs churning into the live soil of Birdsong. It was a long flight, and an even longer run, but his cream and onyx limbs carried his heavy frame through the trees, the smaller trees at the forest’s periphery whipping welts and snapping beneath the brunt of his gallop.
He slowed, ears swiveling as he tried to locate the sound of wingbeats and breaking limbs— but instead the sound of splashes and sobbing found his black-rimmed funnels. Face creases further, pinching his brow and hastening his hooves, as he following the faint sounds of water and heartbreak. What was wrong?
His ears lay back the moment he sees her. The floating flowers, now the same color as her scrubbed-raw skin, decorate the pool of the woman’s sacrificial purity. There was no deliverance to be found beneath these dark, frigid water that swallowed her. His hide flinches at the sudden, piercing keen that comes from the fierce dove— so unlike any sound he has ever heard from her.
”Orithia,” his tone is firm, concern sharpening his his voice around her name— he is already knee-deep in the petal-littered pool. She is so deep in the water, so submerged are her wings— how easily they would weight her beneath the surface. “Njiwa,” his voice is softer, now, as his neck stretches and his head reaches out towards hers, “please, come out of the water.”
...on when you end your story.
njiwa= dove
@Orithia <3
Please tag Tembovu.
