| RISHIMA
I have seen the movement of the sinews of the sky,
And the blood coursing in the veins of the moon.
There is an awkwardness in Lace that conflicts with her fluid ease; he averts his eyes and she keeps hers steady, sharp gaze penetrating enough to leave shallow flesh wounds on his gold-stained grullo coat. How comfortable he had been with her sister, only moments before, touching and speaking with outward joy. And now they flounder in the silence that stretches between them, and she wonders why she has this effect on people, dropping them into impaired discomfort and obscured emotion. Lace does not speak, and neither does she, and so when Mirage's quiet vocals finally break into the emptiness encompassing that breach between them it is a sudden and welcome change, and she feels herself relax.
"Tell me something I don't know, Miri." The biting drawl is softened with an old nickname, gentle throwbacks to the days when they were foals and the world was dark, and beautiful. She wonders how Lace will take it, if he will find the mortalizing of Mirage jarring, as so many seem to. Oh, they place her on a pedestal, and the older sister finds it amusing to watch as those who barely know the mare idolize an image they cannot define. The DragonHeart, they call her - and for some time, the Queen they had not met. Do they think her immortal, omnipotent, celestial in nature? Or perhaps she is simply too hard for them to grasp, and so they revere her among the unknown like fire and light.
Lace seems to have a good grasp on the Mirage, though - but perhaps not as good as he would like. Lucid thoughts play with the idea, not for the first time (and she imagines, not for the last), that there might be illicit emotion shared between the shadow and the knight. Scandal, and silliness, but she has not forgotten the night by the pond when emotions ran high and ares ran silly. How many women was Lace stringing along? And why did every female seem so eager to fall for his gentle charm, the naivete that radiated off him with the warmth of a blanket and a gentle breeze?
Well, not every mare, she supposed. Though the daughter of moon and magic could scarcely count herself amongst the remainder of the masses- not safely could she recall the last time she had approached any emotion close to infatuation, save for a handful of stolen and half buried moments shared with Asur, before he vanished.
She has veered quite far from the matters at hand.
But Mirage's purpose is one she would rather not dwell on. She's stepped back, starlit limbs detangling her from her sister's embrace in stilted steps. There is a flatness to her eyes now, a quiet laced with terror and marred by the uncomfortable way she throws her gaze. Mirage knows me better than this. She knows this is a terrible idea. Her legs are stiffening, a tight panic tingling at the back of her throat... no, no, no. Nobody wants me to lead them. She is grateful for Lace's protests, feeble as they are, for they give her time to avoid the doubt gnawing inside, and she snatches the moment's merciful relief. "Don't be stupid," she snaps at the stud, and her voice snaps more than she would like, but she cannot help it. "Torasin makes a fitting nurse. You will make a suitable leader. Everyone has a place." And mine is not in any sort of authority. She can remember the last time someone trusted her to lead them, trusted her at all, and it is not a pleasant recollection. Elijah broken and bloody upon the ground, Jezirah's hatred a bubbling pool collecting slowly to sear her soul. Poor decisions leading to broken hearts.
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