violence
She dreams, someday, of being someone’s monster. She hopes to have tales told, of the vicious thing who took them, of her bone-thing. And perhaps there are stories – she had ruined before – but they are not widespread. Violence is, largely, an unknown in Beqanna. She is powerful, but not outrageously so, and she had no allegiance to kingdoms. She had helped, briefly, in Pangea’s founding, but she had tired quickly of the land and left soon thereafter. And ever since, she has wandered.
She wonders what he will tell of this story, after. If she will be a monster, or a savior.
She wants, somehow, to be both.
She listens to his answer. His affirmation that yes, he would return. She smiles, and listens to the sound of frost crackling over his skin. She wishes, for the thousandth time, that she had her mother’s magic – she would simply recreate the scene from nothing, plunge him back into that dark place, just to see what he would do.
Alas, alas.
“I would make it for you, if I could,” she says. She isn’t sure how this should make him feel, but from her, this is almost a kindness.
“Someday,” she continues, “you should take me to where your mother died. Or the beast. I could bring them back for you, for a little while.”
She is less practiced in bringing back flesh, but she would try. To see what would happen.
these violent delights bring violent ends
