4 hours ago
You.
It echoes. Not only in her ears but in the very marrow of her bones. It rattles through her chest, arrests her heart, stills her breath. She will die, she knows this. She feels this, too, in the marrow of her bones. She, a thing made for bleeding. She, a thing made for dying. She, a thing that has always been so dreadfully fragile.
And yet. She knows she must fight.
Because there may be death on the other side of this, but even she knows that it will not be final. There will be another death after this one. And then another. She has made some grave mistake coming here, agreeing to be the demon’s plaything. (Although, had there been a choice? Had it been decided for her when her soul had been stuffed back into that useless, useless body? The annoyance she had felt then feels impossible now. Here, where she cannot see beyond her fear.)
The pegasi turn to charge and she thinks to join them. She thinks that, perhaps in this body, she might somehow be less of a coward. She will be a useful thing. She will fight beside them, even if the ending is already written. Even though there is no chance at all for them.
But then, a terrifying stillness, each and every one of them stopped short. She watches in horror as their bodies contort, as the blood springs forth from their eyes, their gaping mouths, their noses. And she screams, loud enough that she cannot hear the sounds of their bones snapping beneath that terrible, invisible pressure. Their limbs snap, their necks twist, and she, too, is paralyzed. How proud they had been, the pegasi, how courageous. And yet, their bravery could not save them in the end.
Still, the dragon’s words echo. Through her limbs, into the very cavern of her chest, despite her own screaming. Despite the sudden return of sound, the cacophony of their screams, too. She will die, she knows, just as they are dying, and there is nothing she can do to stop it.
Except.
Except to fight.
The dragon surges forward with a great breath of fire and, heart hammering, she envisions a wall of water. And it comes, though it is not as tremendous as she’s imagined. It is enough to absorb some of the fire, enough that she comes away only singed. Her nerves begin to hum with electricity, some sharp, heady dose of adrenaline. It leaves her trembling as she watches the great beast turn, prepare to bear down on her again.
And that fear turns into some sharp, suffocating rage. It is hot and bright and unlike anything she’s ever felt before. It is injustice that fuels her anger, how the beast had reduced such proud, courageous creatures to twisted horseflesh, broken bones, blood. How the world had done the same to her, once, how she’d bled for so much less. How pointless it all is! A sound unlike anything she’s ever made before comes clawing, ferocious, up from the very depths of her soul. But it is not the terrified sound she’d made when those creatures had come from her. It is not fear, it is something much more primal. She surges forward, reckless in her fury, armed only with the very same water that had once killed her. It had become a part of her in her death, moving seamlessly from her lungs to the rest of her. It had gotten into her blood and now she conjured it from thin air, commanding it to attack with all of her might.
She hardly noticed the burst of blood from the beast’s eye. It did not slow the onslaught. It did not give her pause. Instead, she advanced, screaming so feverishly that she could swear all the world could hear it. They could hear it and know that it was her. Even as the beast fell and she with it. And, for the space of a breath, she thought herself victorious. Triumphant. The beast bested, falling, falling, and her chasing it down. And how beautiful a feeling.
And how fleeting.
Replaced by fire. A fire so hot, so blinding, that she did not have time to fear it. No, the last thing she felt was surprise, see. Because she had believed herself triumphant, a victor. Pain, too. Pain as the fire took first those eyes. The eyes she had deemed useless when she’d been returned to that meager, pitiful body. Fitting, then, that they should be the first to go. Pain as the fire took her flesh. Pain as the flames took to those great wings and she began to plummet, swallowed up by the heat. Reduced to so little, reduced, almost, to what she had been before.
And then. Then the fresh, stinging smell of saltwater, cool sand beneath her knees, her mouth pressed into the seabed. She blinks and lifts her head, the smell of burning flesh some distant memory. And there, before her, the great demon, the puppeteer. Around him, the hounds, broken, whimpering.
She rises from where she’d knelt before him and wonders if it had all been a dream. Had she enjoyed it? No, but she does not answer, only stares. What is the game? When will it be over? Will she be doomed to repeat it for the rest of eternity? This cannot be hell, she thinks, this is something much worse. Her throat is dry and exhaustion has begun to work its way into the very fiber of her being. She wants more than anything to go back to sleep.
“I don’t want to play this game anymore,” she says quietly. It is not defiance but surrender. She bows her head, consumed with a new fear as the ground begins to shake. “No,” she says, quiet, for she does not have the energy left to scream. And what good would that do anyway? It would not change the way that fear sinks its rotten teeth into the meat of her heart. Again, she is paralyzed by it, her mind flooded with memory. “Please,” she gasps instead. The fear tears at her heart, her brain. It leaves her quivering, trembling, breathless.
Again, she will die, she thinks, and she cannot help but feel as though this will be the worst death of them all.
It echoes. Not only in her ears but in the very marrow of her bones. It rattles through her chest, arrests her heart, stills her breath. She will die, she knows this. She feels this, too, in the marrow of her bones. She, a thing made for bleeding. She, a thing made for dying. She, a thing that has always been so dreadfully fragile.
And yet. She knows she must fight.
Because there may be death on the other side of this, but even she knows that it will not be final. There will be another death after this one. And then another. She has made some grave mistake coming here, agreeing to be the demon’s plaything. (Although, had there been a choice? Had it been decided for her when her soul had been stuffed back into that useless, useless body? The annoyance she had felt then feels impossible now. Here, where she cannot see beyond her fear.)
The pegasi turn to charge and she thinks to join them. She thinks that, perhaps in this body, she might somehow be less of a coward. She will be a useful thing. She will fight beside them, even if the ending is already written. Even though there is no chance at all for them.
But then, a terrifying stillness, each and every one of them stopped short. She watches in horror as their bodies contort, as the blood springs forth from their eyes, their gaping mouths, their noses. And she screams, loud enough that she cannot hear the sounds of their bones snapping beneath that terrible, invisible pressure. Their limbs snap, their necks twist, and she, too, is paralyzed. How proud they had been, the pegasi, how courageous. And yet, their bravery could not save them in the end.
Still, the dragon’s words echo. Through her limbs, into the very cavern of her chest, despite her own screaming. Despite the sudden return of sound, the cacophony of their screams, too. She will die, she knows, just as they are dying, and there is nothing she can do to stop it.
Except.
Except to fight.
The dragon surges forward with a great breath of fire and, heart hammering, she envisions a wall of water. And it comes, though it is not as tremendous as she’s imagined. It is enough to absorb some of the fire, enough that she comes away only singed. Her nerves begin to hum with electricity, some sharp, heady dose of adrenaline. It leaves her trembling as she watches the great beast turn, prepare to bear down on her again.
And that fear turns into some sharp, suffocating rage. It is hot and bright and unlike anything she’s ever felt before. It is injustice that fuels her anger, how the beast had reduced such proud, courageous creatures to twisted horseflesh, broken bones, blood. How the world had done the same to her, once, how she’d bled for so much less. How pointless it all is! A sound unlike anything she’s ever made before comes clawing, ferocious, up from the very depths of her soul. But it is not the terrified sound she’d made when those creatures had come from her. It is not fear, it is something much more primal. She surges forward, reckless in her fury, armed only with the very same water that had once killed her. It had become a part of her in her death, moving seamlessly from her lungs to the rest of her. It had gotten into her blood and now she conjured it from thin air, commanding it to attack with all of her might.
She hardly noticed the burst of blood from the beast’s eye. It did not slow the onslaught. It did not give her pause. Instead, she advanced, screaming so feverishly that she could swear all the world could hear it. They could hear it and know that it was her. Even as the beast fell and she with it. And, for the space of a breath, she thought herself victorious. Triumphant. The beast bested, falling, falling, and her chasing it down. And how beautiful a feeling.
And how fleeting.
Replaced by fire. A fire so hot, so blinding, that she did not have time to fear it. No, the last thing she felt was surprise, see. Because she had believed herself triumphant, a victor. Pain, too. Pain as the fire took first those eyes. The eyes she had deemed useless when she’d been returned to that meager, pitiful body. Fitting, then, that they should be the first to go. Pain as the fire took her flesh. Pain as the flames took to those great wings and she began to plummet, swallowed up by the heat. Reduced to so little, reduced, almost, to what she had been before.
And then. Then the fresh, stinging smell of saltwater, cool sand beneath her knees, her mouth pressed into the seabed. She blinks and lifts her head, the smell of burning flesh some distant memory. And there, before her, the great demon, the puppeteer. Around him, the hounds, broken, whimpering.
She rises from where she’d knelt before him and wonders if it had all been a dream. Had she enjoyed it? No, but she does not answer, only stares. What is the game? When will it be over? Will she be doomed to repeat it for the rest of eternity? This cannot be hell, she thinks, this is something much worse. Her throat is dry and exhaustion has begun to work its way into the very fiber of her being. She wants more than anything to go back to sleep.
“I don’t want to play this game anymore,” she says quietly. It is not defiance but surrender. She bows her head, consumed with a new fear as the ground begins to shake. “No,” she says, quiet, for she does not have the energy left to scream. And what good would that do anyway? It would not change the way that fear sinks its rotten teeth into the meat of her heart. Again, she is paralyzed by it, her mind flooded with memory. “Please,” she gasps instead. The fear tears at her heart, her brain. It leaves her quivering, trembling, breathless.
Again, she will die, she thinks, and she cannot help but feel as though this will be the worst death of them all.
