KINGSLAY

It left the girl.
It had too.

It forgot the galaxies that lay between the fractures of her irises, because it had too, because it was the way that evolution worked – forgetting the weakest parts of yourself in lieu of something bigger, in lieu of survival.

So, it left the girl.

It survived, forgot the way that her pulse felt in his throat, and the way her hips looked when they disappeared into the horizon. It survived, forgetting the way her tongue would curl around the syllables of his – it’s – name.

It had too.

Instead, it remembers the roots.
It remembers the way that they spiraled through the cracks of it’s ribs; held the bones and threatened to break them. It remembers the sound a slice can make. It remembers blood spilling, pooling. It remembers red rain, and how it felt warm against the soot and ash of his skin.

It remembers most things, except her.
It remembers as much as it can.

And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.

oh, where do we begin? the rubble or our sins?

She remembers everything; every twinge of her womb that brought forth his hip-swaying girl, every grain of sand that it turned to glass, and the oh-so-satisfying thrum of butterfly wings in her reptilian-toothed mouth.

To forget is unheard of. To forget is impossible. To forget her is an insult.
As much as she loathes it, as much as she blames the ash and blood and bone wretch that has made the mistake of wandering back into the circle of her attention - as much as she would love crush it beneath a twenty-ton rainbow, she cannot let it forget that they drove her away.

It is not worth the dust beneath the muddy-eyed girl’s hooves. It should be so lucky to have the hunger quenched when she is around.

The woman hisses, a sharp intake of breath that makes the rabbits flick their ears in momentary panic. Her eyes narrow to slits as she shamelessly - without finesse or delicacy, the purposeful sloppiness of a burglar who wants her presence to be known - probes his mind and finds? Nothing. Oh, the mind is a tricky thing, indeed. Its mind makes her hold back the bile that wells up from the pit of her stomach, the revulsion she feels from being near such an evil creature. Few have made her feel that way; the night-witch and her monster beast, the plastic rapist, and this fire and brimstone made flesh.

No, she thinks. No. That will not do. She will drag the memories from the base of his spine if she has to.

Instead, she draws up the image of Etro.
Her name, say her name
And then she is Etro. With mud-brown eyes and awkward proportions, with the quieting calm that only she can have.

False Etro moves from the tree line, crossing it’s line of vision, but never sparing it a glance.
Say her name

YAEL

mother, queen, magician