Transfixed, spellbind, the opaque Lady of Nightmares comes forth with a quaver and tremor, denial and disavowal in a pointless screech, conquered by the deep timbre of the Earth's command. A sharp expression of decree, the woman watches as the ghoul flounders and recoils, as if struck, she hisses as the snakes in pain and the Princess remains motionless, exalted, free of the chains of madness that have clutched the charcoal woman.
The waters take her once more, and she slides into the muck as that of a crocodile, the Princess imagines that she would be given the teeth of one, as well. Hobbles and disappearance follow her as she is cloaked in the shadows once more, until eyesight can no longer keep up with the ink of the night, yet the statue stands with imposing force, unmoving, a cement block with breath that flows from its lungs. There is peace, silence, bearing down with brute force, tranquility, as if the monsters that have taken place here were but dreams of a child in the nest, with the warm, watchful expression of a mother's caring arms to wrap around and bundle close, to whisper that it was not real, it did not happen, but it was mere imaginings of a overactive mind. She feels the sudden stare upon her hide, cinnamon meets olive, and in a fit, the silence is broken to the noises of mortal failures.

Coughs and shudders, his frame breaks down, scrapes and laceration, thickened trickles of red wine and the gentle bumps of that which would bruise and clot, it scatters droplets of demonic dew across the fresh grass and its aroma dances in the air as scented flames. Tattered wings hang as banners from limp sides, silence befalls them once more.
He speaks after a pause, watchful eyes upon where she believes his frame to be, gratitude expressed in measures through trembling breath and he raises his dome to gaze upon her hidden frame, a small glimmer of a smile reaches his maw, before it fades into nothing, as well. He wonders, guesses, at what cause might come to earn him such marks, and the statue remains silent, listens with open harks, yet does not make to speak, does not move.
Perhaps it is the roots of deep, ancient wars that bring the glimmers of hatred into her gut, the ideal that it is because he is winged and they are not blessed with the skies that they come forth to ruin him, to cause carnage unto him, to rip forth his right to the heavens. The ink swells in her veins, images, teachings, she is not racist, or so she does not want to think, but the mind cannot erase the taught words of the past, and it is ingrained within her soul as old as time itself.

Nothing is heard, save for the gentle hum of the river and the noise of crickets come to sing them a lullaby, and the statue moves, finally, gazes with dark, knowing eyes upon him, scans his frame with hard, yet soft, pearls. They glitter, gleam in the darkness, two gems that shine with the reflection of the luminescent feathers that litter the Earth around them, as some sickened form of bedding.
"You'll be alright." The words are meant to be comforting, wisps of an accent long forgotten to these equines along her tongue as rainwater. They will grow back. You will heal.
"Can you stand, lad? I will aid you in return to your residence."

I am here. You are redeemed. Fear not, little warrior.
"I am Brighid."






Brighid</style>
PUT ON YOUR WAR PAINT</style>