etro --
in the hushing dusk, under a swollen silver moon,
I came walking with the wind to watch the cactus bloom
There are worlds inside of it she will never understand. There are things that shape him, it, that are alien to her in almost as severe of a fashion as the bladed plates that compose its body. She would not understand the relationship between it and its mother; she would not understand the way its tongue cannot wrap around the syllables so natural to her; she would not understand the hungering for meat that would make her own stomach turn against her. Still, she does not fear him. Never fears what she should.
“Yes, a pack,” she nods with enthusiasm—pleased that she was making some sort of progress with it, although she does not trust that the progress has been much. “Do you want a pack?” She is not sure why she is asking; it is not like she has a pack of her own to offer him. Once, she might have been able to offer it that. Once, she had been princess of the desert (is again, she supposes) and had run wild among the dunes. Once, she had been blanketed by stars and promise—the hope of forever pressed into her shoulder blades. But such promise, such hope, had been stripped from her, and she had no such thing to offer.
Now, she was merely a vagrant. She wandered the meadow because it was the only place where she did not feel the magic of the land creep into her belly. She stayed alone often because she could not stand to see the light fade from her companion’s eyes when their wings melted from their body or when they struggle to utilize abilities as familiar as their own flesh. Etro had been born to be a social creature, but she now found herself a loner. Kingslay had turned and left—disappearing into the rustle of brush where life beckoned to be taken. Sleaze had gone too, although she trusted that one day he would return.
She was just alone—and she was lonely.
“I don’t have a pack,” she admits, more to herself than anyone.
-- vanquish and yael's trait-negating desert princess --
