yael

Let her be judged, if that is what he wants – he will find within her heat an unceasing fount of love and goodwill, though the water it spouts cannot entirely hide the bloodstains that mar the porcelain basin – faint, but there for those who seek for some sort of flaw. Like most mortals, she is somewhat short-sighted at times and prone to outbursts of emotion. But it all stems from love; love for her children, her kingdom, her friends, and above all to do whatsoever she can to protect them from the evils of B’kanna, of which there were many.  Those indiscretions, the deaths she’s caused, they all weigh heavy on her mind from time to time – usually when the rest of her world is falling apart – but she manages, for the most part, to use them as a vow to do better.

Here, in Helovia, it seems like she may have a change to do just that. Repent. Redefine. And yet, even will all that mental fortitude, she finds her resolve wavering, a woman walking a tightrope between two very, very tall buildings, unsure if her safety net is beneath her or not.

“Eet’s se strongest barree-er I’ve ever encountered…” she starts, thoughtfully, knowing that what he says makes perfect sense. But then, how do they do it? Such a large and powerful thing requires great energy to maintain, especially if it’s strong enough to strip all her powers from her. And in that moment, Yael suddenly becomes resentful – angry, even – about the things over which she’s had no control. It sparks like wildfire, flaring up in dry grass and running rampant through her body. It sears her veins and turns her phoenix heart to ash, heat stealing the breath from her lungs until her chest aches. Eyes flash with a rare, hostile intensity as the shadow appears to shrug. Her ire is not directed at him, but at the loss that still runs a rapid course through her, try as she might bury it all in rock and mud. Rivers are clever things; they change course so gradually, that even stone cannot withstand its constant power. Ever changing. Ever adapting. Placid and turbulent but always the giver of life.

She must not be the fire. She must be the river. Which, you know, is hard for a woman with a dragon alter ego.

“Eet took everyzing from me… po’er, eemortalitee… maybe even my cheeldren…” Her throat closes around the word as she swallows their names. Tariq. Tzion. Eyes that moments ago held an inferno within them now look with understanding upon the being before her, this indeterminate shape who has caused such a ruckus in Helovia. “Ees t’is vhat you feel? To some ekstent?”  To hear her own mouth frame the problem in such a way is a small revelation, something that she imagines many Helovians could easily understand.

After waiting for a response, Yael shakes her head dismissively, following it up with a sad chuckle. “Xow could I possiblee choose vich of my mageecs ees next favoreete?” She shrugs, looking off to one side. “I xaf my dragon-self…” a smile creeps across her face, the joy she takes in that form evident. “She ees enough. But eef I could cure loneleeness or stop vinter, I vould not say no to zat.”

Everything else she could want is either impossible in this world, it seems, or too great to a gift to ask for. Yael has some sense of propriety, keeping quite some distance from the line that changes ambition to greed.