Aamu
Helped who?
But it dies on his tongue.
She wears a crown of flames, and the wings of Gods. They spread from her slender back, spanning from horizon to horizon, and her eyes—her eyes have looked at him before, with the same expression. To him, they are cold fire, hardened steel, pitch and tar. Righteous; haughty. "Rishima," he breathes, barely aware, full of winter and death and hard fear.
He knows why she is not welcome. Sees it in her eyes, in the touch of her God.
He feels .. many things, and among them: pity. She's just a girl, she should have life ahead of herself, not—not war, not the dirty business of a narrow-minded, fearful God. "Only because your Gods shoved them into the same cage," he points out, fighting to keep the hiss out of his voice. He wants to rise to the challenge, to the bait, to go back three hundred years and meet her again.
Only, this time, he thinks he is far outmatched.
"And how long until yours do?" Perhaps his voice is slightly too sweet, a poison blade. Let her answer that if she will: he'd like to hear it. He knows enough of what happened with the barrier, how the heralds were so readily sacrificed to keep the Ascended at bay. What's to say she's not just another lamb for the slaughter?
But it dies on his tongue.
She wears a crown of flames, and the wings of Gods. They spread from her slender back, spanning from horizon to horizon, and her eyes—her eyes have looked at him before, with the same expression. To him, they are cold fire, hardened steel, pitch and tar. Righteous; haughty. "Rishima," he breathes, barely aware, full of winter and death and hard fear.
He knows why she is not welcome. Sees it in her eyes, in the touch of her God.
He feels .. many things, and among them: pity. She's just a girl, she should have life ahead of herself, not—not war, not the dirty business of a narrow-minded, fearful God. "Only because your Gods shoved them into the same cage," he points out, fighting to keep the hiss out of his voice. He wants to rise to the challenge, to the bait, to go back three hundred years and meet her again.
Only, this time, he thinks he is far outmatched.
"And how long until yours do?" Perhaps his voice is slightly too sweet, a poison blade. Let her answer that if she will: he'd like to hear it. He knows enough of what happened with the barrier, how the heralds were so readily sacrificed to keep the Ascended at bay. What's to say she's not just another lamb for the slaughter?
Through the streets and the houses of gods you roam
and on their altars you lay your heart of stone
and on their altars you lay your heart of stone
