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08-30-2016, 11:54 PM
i never said i'd stay to the end
Hobgoblin is the first one to notice her, caught up in the sudden ending of songs from the beaks of the birds. They all seem to cower in fear at the passing of a golden queen, yet for him, it is the belief that at the mere sight of him that the world cowers. It fills him with a pride that Sikeax should wear instead, or even in unison with him.
All it actually does for Sikeax is draw her brows into one another and stare upon him with disappointment. She is the Dragon’s Throat Sultana, the only one because Gaucho the Wildfire, after years of vibrant burning, has finally burned out. It puts a reminder of pain in her chest.
“Not fault.”
Attempts at reassurance are fruitless. He is set fully on the future while she cannot pull her head away from the present, too scared of what will happen if she can’t address the Wildfire’s death and how the herd must look upon her as their next leader. She has healed their wounds and rescued refugees from their borders, saved their children from death before they can even access the situation, but has failed them in the worst way possible. She has let their leader die.
And how is she to apologize to them with her failure? The forced, scared acceptance of her title of Sultana.
They’re probably laughing at her now, back in the desert, conjuring up ideas as of how they can remove a woman who wasn’t ready for the throne off of it and place a person more capable in it.
“Stop.”
Her stare hardens into stone. He wears nothing in return. There is no distance between them, both physically and mentally, yet she feels as if the passion that drives from him in waves is absent. Dullness slips from him, drowns her in turn. There’s an off chance that he’s just reflecting how she is making him feel back to her, but effort has held her head as much as it has held her bones. She doesn’t have the energy to think it through.
The physical silence in the world is deafening, crushing, thrusting needless weight against her and pushing down until she feels that she cannot stand it anymore. What birds there had been appear to have left, and when she is about to usher Hobgoblin and herself, each and every one flees in a flurry of rustling wings and hurried panic.
Yet imagine the odd relief that she drinks in absentmindedly when it’s Volterra, the man who had sired her son and brought him back to her when he had disappeared(or not really, she knew that Zhu had left on his own accord well), who had shown himself to be changing the last time that they had been granted the ability to speak without emotions fueling some sort of situation.
The stress in her shoulders relieves and they sink in response, tense brows smoothing, twisted ears falling slack into her tiredness. As far as she is concerned, he isn’t much of a threat.
Her name on his lips hits just as hard as it has within the past few days. Its becoming a thing she doesn’t want to hear anymore but no longer has control over. Everyone will know it soon enough. They’ll know that Sikeax is the name you hear when you think of the Dragon’s Throat, or maybe they’ll still be caught up in denial and think Gaucho instead. Hope fills up the cup labeled for the ladder.
“Volterra.” Against the brutality of his voice, even in simple tone, her’s is soft, silk, a mother’s tongue from the children she’s raised(all from him, except for one now) and the times that she’s had to console her patients when needed.
Too bad last time it didn’t work.
A question slips forth. One of the first choice of things that you ask a person when you first meet them, and she wonders if he knows yet. She wonders if he has remembered that she was supposed to be saving them, to be healing them.
Probably not.
The beginning of her response is a lone sigh, Hobgoblin’s head migrating about to further more search out his only friend, separated by different species and whatever distance there is between him and the red dragon.
“Honestly?” No spare thoughts flicker through that tell her if she should trust him enough to bring her feelings out onto the table, to let him know that what he wanted is something that she has unintentionally achieved with little to no effort. “Terrible. Possibly the worst I’ve been in years. Things have been crashing down in the Throat a lot faster than expected.”
She crumbles a lot easier than expected, but in truth, she is weaker and more frail than she has ever been now, softer than clouds and more breakable than porcelain.
“But how have you been? It’s been a while.”
when both us knew how the end always is
you were angels,
so much more than everything
:: please tag me
:: minor force and power play allowed
