β βΈ» fatewalkr has passed on the flame of war .α β oh look, itβs my charming little sunspot. β
FOR HOW LONG HAD THEY TRAVERSED THIS VAST WASTELAND, VENTURING BEYOND THE KNOWN & UNKNOWING STILL WHAT CONTINUES TO AWAIT THEM BEYOND β FROM NALBINA TO THE ESTERSAND & NOW SOMEWHERE ELSE IN THE SWELTERING IVALICE HEAT. from the very catherdral of her heart, stained - glass window memories ( the sanctity of what can be remembered witnessed at the chancel, sweet sonnet prayer of the choir while souls sway in harmony at the nave, emptiness at the narthex, the porch ) come to sweet ruination as her teeth glide along the rim of the glass jug, imperial wine ichor tacky on her tongue. unlike she, aelin is not beholden to the sun β smitten - soft bones lax beneath the warmth all the same, but not healed, not since the war & not since the re-emergence, wrists bruised & cuffed more this week than any other despite her inclination for slitting the throats of imperial soldiers who've grown too lax, or attempted to be too fond of these subjugated bodies.
& had it not been her that had uttered those words years ago beneath her shikari master? cruelty in place of love in the crumble of landis, dishonor staining her crystalline image in red. an exchange of tenderness for the skills that she might use against the judge magisters one torn out heart at a time until she found the one who had made a martyr of her mother. now the chance to slay the archadian hounds until at very last none were to remain, not for dalmasca's sake, but her very own.
β it's hot. β whining cued by salt - slick golden - blond hair slick against her temples, silver now thanks to the undeniable brimming of the sun above. nevertheless aelin remains charming in her orphanhood, green - blue gaze even & smile practiced, appropriate, even as the continuing growth of their little family remains to be offensively impressive. it almost certainly begins like a horrible, overused joke β three orphans, a viera, a sky pirate & his bride, the infamous traitor & his forbidden princess all walk into a bar β or in their case, a war. one would think all these years in the swelter of the city would have prepared her for the absurdity presented before her, yet here she is nonetheless, wine jug clutched to her chest as she tries, in vain, to keep her head above the sea.
either way, her swipes the back of her hand across the sweaty mess of her forehead & blinks blearily towards the open sky. β free at last. β a hushed confession pulls between forlorn lips, roseate to taste. β now to go where it please us. β
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