𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚝𝚊𝚛    𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊    𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚕    is    an    independent    original    character    ,    dreamt    by    eve.

between    my    sleeping    &    dreaming,     between    me    &    the    one    in    me who    i    suppose    i    am, a    river    flows    without    end.

mister    walker    !        *    girl    looks    ecstatic,    putting    her    magazine    down    to    observe    rosie's    dilf    approach.    *        is    tha'    food    ?    i    could    eat    a    whole    damn    cow.        *    eyes    leave    the    adult    to    throw    a    quick    look    at    the    clock.    but    the    moment    doesn't    last    long    enough    to    be    suspicious.    instead,    she    reorients    her    bright    smile    toward    her    caretaker    of    the    day.        *    thanks    again    for    feedin'    me.    i    kinda    burned    down    my    kitchen    the    last    time    i    tried    doin'    that    myself.

as usual, none of ishtar’s yeehaw words make any sense. 😔 it takes sienna a moment to determine that the bull 🐂 is ishtar and sienna is the rider 🤠. well, maybe. she’s not actually sure who’d do the riding and who’d, er, be ridden, but she has a pretty clear idea of who’s who. not that it matters if it’s never going to happen. 😔 

sienna pops another 🍟 into her mouth and glumly looks up @ ishtar’s 😏 face.

     ❛ if there are a million reasons to stay, then why don’t you? ❜ 🥺 ❛ if i’m special, then what kind of special am i? not the right kind? not special enough? ❜ it’s always you’re special, sienna 😶😬🥴, but never you’re special, sienna 😍🥵😘. ❛ i’ll tell you what kind of special you are to me. you’re ishtar, singer of solar winds and prettier than the brightest stars. ishtar, 🤠 queen of fleeting and fleeing. ❜ 

😔 is it possible to be lonely for someone eating 🍟 with you? 🥺

     ❛  i-i close my eyes and you’re still there, and when i open them, you’re gone again. a good rodeoing could bring us together forever… ❜ 🥺👉👈💙

                  ❝  ishy  !!  ❞  whether  she’ll  welcome  or  detest  the  nickname  you  come  up  with  on  the  fly  is  farthest  on  your  list  of  concerns.  will  you  let  her  in  on  your  shenanigans,  or  will  you  hide  all  evidence?  well  ..  if  anyone  were  going  to  understand,  it  would  be  ishtar,  wouldn’t  it?  ❝  hold  on.  watch.  ❞  rather  than  reveal  how  you  do  this,  you  wrap  an  arm  loosely  around  the  girl  and  point.  your  finger  lands  on  the  star  quarterback  in  all  his  glory,  specifically  in  the  middle  of  those  abs  he’s  showing  off.  it  starts  off  as  a  little  itch,  but  then  he’s  wincing,  a  blistering  burn  appearing  in  a  dot,  like  an  invisible  laser  pointer  were  aimed  at  him.  when  you  drop  your  finger,  he  stops  squirming;  examines  the  sky,  then  looks  around,  so  you  quickly  duck  your  head,  and  hope  ish  will  do  the  same.  the  guy  pissed  you  off.  didn’t  have  to  do  anything  in  specific,  either..  he’s  just  a  douchebag.  you  try  not  to  overdo  it  with  pranks  like  these,  but  today  you’re  feeling  rather  reckless.

SHE  DOES  NOT  RELENT  TO  HIM   :       your  childhood  has  fled  from  you,   outstretched  arms  chasing  away  stray  pigeons  and  the  leftover  charm  that  had  pronounced  you  worthy  of  a  crown,   and  you  cannot  hold  it  close  anymore       (       the  desire  remains       —       your  aching  heart  has  imagined  a  softer  reunion  than  this  a  thousand  times  over       ).     he  is  torn  apart  by  his  own  inadequacy      ;      his  hands  cannot  smooth  away  all  the  pain  that  has  befall  her,   these  years  of  horror  that  weighed  against  their  shoulders       —      HE  WAS  A  LEADING  MAN  IN  A  PLAY  THAT  IS  ONLY  HALF  -  REMEMBERED.       he  looks  at  the  page  and  spots  his  name  hidden  away  in  places  it  shouldn’t  be,    the  blur  of  simon  still  haunting  him       [       you  left  and  now  my  father  is  dead   :     my  father  is  dead  because  you  left       ].        he  wishes  there  was  a  kinder  ending  to  their  story,    that  the  pages  had  not  already  been  written  for  them      —       if  the  world  was  kinder  to  people  like  them,    she  would  have  found  him  before  all  of  this       (       A  FATHER  HELD  IN  FRONT  OF  THE  COURTS,   A  DASHING  HERO  BREAKING  DOWN  THE  DOORS  TO  RECLAIM  HIS  CROWN  AND  PROVE  THE  MAN’S  INNOCENCE       ).       but  their  story  was  one  of  lost  horrors,   childhood  a  faint  memory  dandelion  -  dusted  between  open  mouths      /       love  has  always  been  a  kind  of  killing       —       and  he  had  killed  simon  in  the  hopes  she  would  remember  a  hero  rather  than  a  scared  princeling      [       how  had  that  turned  out  for  you?       ].       her  body  is  tense  below  her  hands.     she  is  no  honey  -  smoothed  maiden  waiting  to  pool  into  his  arms,    desperate  to  be  saved  by  him   :       THEY  ARE  THE  FAINTEST  ECHOS  OF  THEIR  CHILDHOOD  SELVES.

THEY  HAD  HUGGED  A  FEW  TIMES  IN  THEIR  CHILDHOOD   :       alastor  had  always  been  strange  about  touch       [       his  father  had  spent  a  lifetime  explaining  to  him  how  inapproriate  it  was  to  handle  another       ].    it  had  been  palm  against  palm  with  strangers,    a  formal  bow,     the  correct  posturing  during  a  dance  that  led  to  absolutely  nothing.    his  parents  had  been  loving  enough,    but  the  house  grew  blue  -  tinted  with  a  certain  coldness       (      no  fond  maternal  instinct  brimming  with  laughter  as  she  pulled  alastor  towards  him       ;       the  most  he  had  was  her  hand  smoothing  across  his  forehead  when  illness  struck       ).       ENTER  ISHTAR.     uneducated  in  fae  nobility,    the  two  had  huddled  close,    a  childhood  spent  with  their  foreheads  swaying  towards  the  other’s  and  their  hands  entangled.     perhaps  it  would  have  been  a  kindness  to  explain  to  her  that  it  hadn’t  really  fit  with  their  culture       ;       they  had  spent  their  free  time  tiptoeing  across  norms  and  calling  it  tender  -  youthed  friendship.     but  the  fear  would  have  struck  if  he  brought  it  up       [       and  what  if  she  no  longer  holds  my  hand?       ].      a  hug  in  greeting,    in  passing,    as  a  goodbye         —        he  had  trapped  her  close  to  him  as  if  she  were  the  one  prone  to  leaving.

AND  NOW  SHE  ASKS  TO  BE  LET  GO.    it  is  faint  enough  against  his  shoulder  that  he  can  waste  a  few  minutes  in  pretending  he  hadn’t  heard  it       (       perhaps  she  had  said  something  else       —       but,   oh,    her  voice  had  been  dastardly  cold  with  the  hum  of  it       ).       ‘       may  we  not  spend  even  one  more  moment  like  this?      ‘       there  is  a  soft  croak  leaving  his  mouth,    a  wet  noise  that  trembles  in  his  chest       [       but  he  cannot  handle  the  expectation  of  rejection       ].      he  pulls  away  from  her  before  she  can  push  him  from  her,    an  act  of  savagery  that  he’s  sure  he  wouldn’t  be  able  to  endure.   he  keeps  close,    looming,    his  hands  upon  her  arms.      she  is  still  warm  to  the  touch       —       AND  DID  HE  IMAGINE  HER  HEAD  BURIED  AGAINST  HIS  SHOULDER?     there  had  been  nothing  else  from  her,     tense  girl  submitting  herself  without  truly  wanting  it      (       perhaps  a  fight  would  be  kinder!       ).

HE  RELEASES  HER   :      a  final  parting  of  old  friends       —      what  remains  between  them  now  is  all  future  tense,    the  past  a  distant  daydream  grown  bitter  upon  their  tongues      [    you  will  never  be  that  boy  again     ;      you  will  never  hold  that  girl  again     ].   cold  flame  touches  against  his  skin,   a  chill  upon  him  at  every  place  that  her  breath  has  ever  touched     —     PHANTOM  ACHES  OF  WHEN  THEY  TOUCHED  EACH  OTHER  FREELY.     ‘     none  of  this  is  forgivable,   ishtar     [     …     ]      do  you  really  believe  i  would  side  with  my  sister  over  you?   that  you’ve  meant  so  little  to  me,   all  these  years,    that  i  wouldn’t  take  your  side?    BUT  SHE  IS  MY  SISTER   :    if  there  is  to  be  no  redemption,    i  can  search  for  an  explanation.    ‘     it  matters  only  in  image,   in  name.    they  have  drawn  up  a  mock  court  between  them,    the  fae  and  the  human,    bonded  deeply  in  childhood  and  torn  apart  as  adulthood  dawned  upon  them     (   he  needed  to  hear  it  all,    to  have  it  out      ;     his  sister,    renamed  the  queen,    renamed  a  murderer     ).    she  had  been  born  with  a  silver  crown  on  her  head,     the  princess  of  ancient  warriors  and  a  nation  cleared  of  bloodshed,    and  she  had  dyed  herself  red.     WHAT  WOULD  HAVE  BECOME  OF  ALASTOR  IF  HE  HAD  TAKEN  TO  THE  THRONE?    blackness  as  a  family  trait   :      inheritor  of  violence,    scarred  by  his  family  legacy?    what  had  been  birthed  in  malya  that  he  couldn’t  believe  lived  inside  him,   too?      ‘     do  i  offend  you,   human?      you  seem  upset  at  my  very  presence     —      and  yet  you  stay  for  me.     ‘

humans    sometimes    spend    so    much    time    craving    the    existence    of    an    almanac    of    fate    that    they    forget    ;    not    everything    is    meant    to    make    sense.    sometimes    things    hurt    because    they    can,    because    they    must    __    a    wounded    animal    will    bite    any    arm    meeting    its    jaw    &    it    matters    very    little    that    attached    to    it    you    can    find    the    feeding    hand.    in    the    same    fashion,    the    hand    only    feeds    until    it    needs    to    strike    __    it    then    becomes    lightning,    faster    than    any    god's    ire.    oh,    to    see    lightning    &    yet    refuse    to    consider    that    life    is    fleeting.    a    pulse    flies    &    then    stops.    you    can    link    its    cessation    back    to    a    disease,    or    a    defective    cell.    it    does    not    matter    ;    in    the    grand    scheme    of    things,    this    is    nothing.    a    hand    on    her    back    &    her    head    against    his    shoulder.    her    words,    cold    enough    to    break    the    magnetic    field    attracting    her    closer.    this    is    human    &    weakness    ;    both    characteristics    that    she    thought    behind    her.    she    does    not    know    which    side    of    the    rope    to    pull    on    ;    rage    or    desire.    the    urge    to    engulf    his    frame    in    an    embrace    /    the    craving    of    his    lineage's    blood    on    her    hands.    a    life    for    a    life.    it    hurts    because    it    can,    because    it    must    :    she    brought    it    on    herself.

he    ruined    her    life    by    getting    his    back.    how    unfair    is    that    ?    (how    justified)    

as    a    child,    ishtar    was    an    excellent    hugger    ;    touch    is    human    language,    more    so    when    so    few    people    are    willing    to    approach    you.    within    her    village,    she    was    avoided    &    feared.    upon    entering    the    fae    realm,    she    discovered    a    whole    new    set    of    rules.    but    none    made    quiet    as    much    sense    as    they    should    have    __    &    so    many    she    ignored,    simply    because    she    could.    touch,    a    prayer    with    four    hands.    needless    to    say    she    had    known    that    royalty    did    not    act    this    way    ;    ishtar    had    never    been    anything    but    an    excellent    observer.    that    is,    after    all,    part    of    the    curse.    (the    eery    prophet    is    fate's    eyes    ;    what    the    weaver    scribbles,    the    thief    witnesses)    therefore,    ishtar    had    known    how    unproper    it    was,    her    lips    on    simon's    cheek    as    a    goodbye.    her    hand    on    his    arm    in    passing.    it    was    not    she    was    ignorant,    it    was    that    she    made    a    choice    :    in    her    world,    touch    was    love    &    she    loved    him    dearly.    

oh,    tender,    stupid    youth    ...    she    should    have    known    better.    but    what    matters    is    that    she    is    now    aware    :    he    is    a    creature    as    fleeting    as    life,    despite    her    being    the    lightning    ;    a    deadly    apparition    of    light,    striking    him    with    a    few    words.    let    go.    for    a    moment,    she    wishes    he    would    not.    she    wishes    she    had    yet    to    utter    the    words.    she    wishes    time    would    bend    into    a    circle,    simply    so    that    it    would    all    happen    again    :    her    forehead    against    his    shoulder,    fingers    itching    to    hold.    but    she    knows    better    than    to    succumb    to    childish    desires.        «        i    do    not    believe    anything,    alastor.    i    simply    do    not    know    you    ___    what    you    would    do    is    a    mystery    to    me.        »        you    made    sure    of    that,    she    keeps    between    her    teeth,    a    strange    pout    of    both    annoyance    &    suffering.    «        she    simply    made    a    coward's    choice,    same    as    you.        »        and    that    is    all    the    explanation    she    will    offer    on    the    subject    ;    he    does    not    need    to    know    the    politics    of    a    kingdom    he    has    abandoned.    how    ironic,    really,    that    the    human    girl    has    almot    as    long    in    the    fae    realm    as    the    princeling.    

«        oh,    yes,    you    do.    you    absolutely    do.        »    her    answer    comes    as    quickly    as    lightning,    and    the    grin    accompanying    it    is    just    as    deadly.    human,    he    says,    and    she    shows    teeth    ;    certainly    not    as    sharp    as    some    of    the    creatures    in    his    realm,    but    just    as    deadly    when    wielded    rightly.    there    are    quite    a    few    things    that    the    young    child    she    was    would    have    never    imagined    possible    ___    killing    someone    was    one    of    those    things.    but    ishtar    has    had    her    baptism    of    blood    ;    and    if    fate    refuses    to    see    her    back,    she    will    gladly    collect    the    names    of    those    who    have    wronged    her.    faes,    humans,    under    the    prophet's    powers    ;    they    all    perish.    that    is    the    common    point    between    them    all,    the    one    thing    making    it    obvious    that    they    are    close    cousins    =    when    pushed    too    far,    they    die.    although,    to    be    fair,    let's    give    back    to    faes    what    belongs    to    them.    immortality,    once    expired    &    stolen,    tastes    oh    so    sweet    on    the    tongue.    ishtar    would    know,    she    fought    her    way    out    of    that    goddamn    kingdom,    despite    malya's    insistance    on    sending    assassins    on    her    trail.    

the first thing sienna notices is that ishtar says her name. that sends a flurry of emotions through sienna, each one a butterfly with razor wings, tearing her apart inside with excitement she should not feel. it hurts, more than she can bare to understand, but it’s the type of excitement she hasn’t felt in years. with ishtar, it was a lot of stress, yes—a lot of wondering, a lot of waiting, a lot of watching for ishtar to leave again. it was also Life. maybe not a life worth living, but at least a proper one. she remembers waking on those days she was blessed enough to have ishtar stay with her. rolling over on a flimsy dorm mattress and seeing ishtar in the opposite bed, sun in her hair… 💛. a student of solar studies—beyond fitting, beyond appropriate for ishtar, the brightest star of them all. a mystery, captivating, glowing, sienna’s fixation and adoration. ishtar, the sun, and sienna, every planet that surrounded her, kept in orbit by the laws of ishtar’s attraction. 

and yet, ishtar never said her name. did she? sienna closes her eyes for a moment. she wants to remember, but her own name feels foreign to herself when she thinks of it in association with ishtar. it was always sienna and ishtar in sienna’s mind, but she’d wager it was ishtar, free in ishtar’s mind. if you don’t have a name, you’re not a person. so long as they speak your name, you will never die, but sienna’s name was never spoken. it’s why she’s alight with emotion now, disarmed, once more, by ishtar.

she opens her eyes again, and ishtar is still there. not a day has gone by that sienna has not thought of her name. her mind speaks it daily, so that ishtar will never die, and she has clearly only gotten livelier with time. the newfound interest, the warmth, the sparkle in ishtar’s eyes fueled by genuine presence rather by knowledge that a door is always waiting ( so long as she had nothing to lose, she was free ) has made all the difference. sometimes sienna trembles, thinking of all they could be—could have been.

     ❛ if you don’t make people angry, you’re not doing the right thing. ❜ sienna still feels cornered, but she won’t melt into the wall. she won’t approach ishtar either, because that is uncharted territory. instead, all she will do is cling to her cane and to her clenched fist from the arthur meme because it is all she can do.

ishtar is smiling at her, and it is full of warmth. sienna does not smile back, because sienna does not smile. being sienna means smiling through your words and actions instead of your face. being sienna also means falling apart at ishtar’s smile, because your younger self would have paid anything for that expression of interest.

still, ishtar is here now, and she is present, and she’s still ishtar. she wrote that article that made people angry. good for her. sienna is prouder than she can say. she wishes she could say something equally impressive about herself, but the truth is that all sienna’s done is make all the wrong people angry. not, not even angry—the few that know what she did regard her with pity rather than anger, and sienna can’t stand it. that’s why she’s thought about ishtar so much lately. ishtar never looked at her with pity. she barely looked at her at all, but that was better than pity.

     ❛ you haven’t heard about me because there are special interests in keeping me anonymous. ❜ every word is shaky, because ishtar is doing so well, and sienna wishes she were good enough to match that. she wishes ishtar would look at her and see someone equally successful instead of—whatever sienna is now. god, she misses her younger self—struggling, but with a heart full of passion and hope and genuine belief in humanity and love / ishtar. sienna still believes in love / ishtar, because ishtar is evidence that sometimes things do work out, but everything else in sienna’s life is broken.

     ❛ it’s good to see you too, ishtar. ❜ sienna means it. she means it so much it hurts. and there are a million more things she wants to say. ( but ) an awkward glance around reminds her that it’s not just the two of them, though that’s how it is in her mind. ❛ er… it’s a bit crowded in here, do you agree? ❜ 

the inferno virus could have solved that, but never mind.

«        dunno    how    good    i'm    at    doin'    the    right    thin',    but    gettin'    'em    angry    is    easy.        »    getting    them    angry    was,    at    first,    an    outlet    she    absolutely    needed    :    ishtar    was    used    to    leave    people    hungry    for    more.    she    was    used    to    create    an    interest    &    then    disappear.    she    was    used    to    people    wonder    about    her,    all    distrustful    of    her    existence.    it    was    a    game    she    loved,    a    game    she    was    good    at.    so    when    she    left    her    car    &    moved    in    with    caranthir,    she    had    to    change    the    rules.    the    game    could    no    longer    be    played    the    same    way,    she    realized,    because    hunger    -    on    the    long    term    -    often    turns    to    anger.    so    she    cultivated    that,    turned    it    into    another    mindgame,    made    sure    she    would    win    every    time.    and    she    did.    that    is    the    most    troubling    thing    about    ishtar    :    no    matter    what    she    tries,    the    sheer    chaos    of    her    calculations    usually    get    her    the    right    answer.    in    class,    phantom    among    the    living,    a    wild    collective    memory,    only    there    an    hour    &    then    gone    the    next.    at    work,    an    annoyance    you    couldn't    possibly    keep    quiet.    the    thesis    had    been    a    game,    like    the    rest    of    it,    but    it    had    been    a    risky    one    :    another    step    into    the    grown-up    world,    for    a    book    was    a    bit    of    remembrance,    something    that    time    would    conserve.    

«        special    interests,    uh    ?    wha'    did    ya    do.        »    and    for    a    second    she    is    ishtar,    she    is    twenty,    messy    hair    &    amused    bottomless    pool    eyes.    she    is    the    keeper    of    secrets    &    the    maker    of    messes.    she'll    be    gone    before    you    can    blink    ;    so    you    know    you    can    confide    in    her,    be    it    a    sin    or    a    dream.    she'll    keep    it    close    to    her    chest,    and    once    in    the    wild,    she'll    let    it    go    for    you.    (your    thought    will    fly    away    !    how    beautiful)    there    has    always    been    something    calming    about    telling    ishtar    things,    despite    her    never    opening    her    mouth    to    do    the    same.    even    now,    with    a    few    years    behind    her    and    a    smile    that    has    yet    to    become    sharp,    she    looks    like    she    could    bear    the    burden    of    such    a    confession.    

«        lemme    warn    'im    that    i'm    goin',    but    i'm    buyin'    ya    a    coffee.        »    a    nod,    a    final    punctuation    that    seems    so    out    of    place    coming    from    the    girl    who    prefered    her    sentences    with    no    end    (ellipses    everwhere,    an    open    door    she    always    went    through    when    the    time    seemed    right).    a    nod    &    yes,    she's    gone    with    no    further    explanations    on    who    the    "him"    might    be.    the    woman's    walking    through    the    crowd    like    she    knows    where    she's    going,    and    she    does,    that    is    the    marvelous    thing    about    loving    people    for    real    :    you    pick    up    the    smallest    details    until    you    know    them    by    heart.    and    then    you    use    whatever    mess    you    came    up    with    as    a    map    to    guide    you    home.    she    finds    him    not    far    away    from    sienna    so    that    if    the    woman    desired,    she    could    look.    she'd    see    ishtar    place    a    hand    on    his    arm,    half-tugging    until    he's    leaning    forward.    creating    intimacy    in    the    middle    of    a    crowded    room    :    apparently,    a    well-rehearsed    ritual.    a    close    look    and    she'd    witness    the    small,    amused    smile    on    his    lips    the    second    his    eyes    meet    ishtar's,    and    the    way    she    appears    to    be    talking    a    bit    fast    __    like    there's    no    calculation,    no    hesitation.    like    she    can    just    let    go    of    the    words    &    offer    them    to    him    without    caring.    and    that,    surely,    must    be    surprising    to    anyone    who    knew    the    girl    &    not    the    woman.    even    in    her    most    chaotic    moments,    ishtar    is    a    planner    first    &    foremost.    every    sentence    hits    right,    for    every    sentence    is    part    of    the    game.    but    these    are    free,    delivered    with    amused    confidence,    knowing    that    if    a    sentence    trips    on    itself    he'll    be    there    to    get    it    back    up.    knowing    that    her    words    are    just    words,    and    no    ominous    prophecies.    if    anyone    else    was    witnessing    the    scene,    they'd    see    how    ishtar    is    now    laughing,    agitating    her    phone    at    him    with    one    hand    while    the    other    is    tugging    even    more    on    his    sleeve    until    he's    low    enough    that    she    can    kiss    his    cheek    ...    and    then    she's    gone,    but    not    without    looking    back    to    wave    at    him.    [    and    maybe    that    is    love,    too.    leaving    &    taking    the    time    to    say    goodbye    &    promising    you'll    come    back.    ]    +    the    other    person,    trusting    that    you    mean    it.    

❛      she’s  old  and  it’s  about  time  she  DIED      ❜

ishtar  is  spelling  out  his  doom  for  him  ,  her  words  ever  vague  but  so  strikingly  clear  to  his  ears  ,  because  lloer  already  knows  :  his  time  is  running  out  ,  this  will  be  no  blaze  of  glory  ,  just  his  blood  soiling  the  ground  .  she  is  talking  to  a  dead  man,  surely  she  knows  as  much  .  so  it’s  not  what  the  sorceress  is  saying  that  makes  his  mouth  tighten  in  a  grim  line  ,  it  cannot  be  ——  it’s  her  tone  ,  almost  gentle  ,  sweet  in  a  way  that  is  entirely  too  false  .  it  feels  like  poisonous  bolts  digging  their  way  into  his  stomach  ,  tearing  through  flesh  and  muscle  like  little  merciless  soldiers  .  the  half  elf  would  prefer  her  to  scream  ,  to  burn  bright  with  anger  ,  just  like  he  wants  to  ,  just  like  the  unchecked  fury  he  is  edging  towards  .  he  is  tired  of  keeping  the  lead  on  it  sealed  inside  him  ,  it’s  threatening  to  boil  over  and  spill  ,  uncaring  of  the  damage  he  might  inflict  in  the  process  .  clock’s  ticking  and  you  have  wasted  your  time  ,  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  your  own  jailers  .  they  barely  even  looked  at  you  ——  they  didn’t  even  care  .  never  did  ,  never  will  .

❛  all  our  clocks  are  ticking  .  this  is  a  dying  land  and  i  am  leaving  it  to  its  fate  .  ❜    they  might  sound  like  the  words  of  a  coward  ,  yet  he  is  not  fleeing  to  save  his  skin  ,  only  running  to  his  grave  .  he  might  as  well  attempt  to  do  right  by  the  people  he  has  hurt  the  most  ,  at  the  very  least  .

❛  i  would  rather  not  fight  my  way  out  of  here  ,  but  i  will  —  if  you  try  to  stop  me  .  ❜  he  stands  before  her  a  traitor  ,  or  about  to  be  one  ,  the  question  is  :  does  she  care  enough  to  block  his  path  ?    /    @dhufeainnewedd

this    is    a    dying    land    __    oh,    who    does    he    think    he    is    talking    to    ?    she    is    the    one    with    the    clock    in    her    hands,    watching    each    little    hand    tick    tick    tick    relentlessly,    knowing    one    tock    will    mark    the    end    of    everything    she    holds    dear.    [    caranthir    is    nothing    but    an    elf    ;    but    he    will    fall    &    his    land    with    him.    she    knows    that.    ]    she    knows    that    :    lloer    might    not    be    able    to    strike    anywhere    that    truly,    deeply    hurts,    but    she    does    not    like    being    reminded    of    a    story    she    will    soon    have    to    tell    in    a    past    tense.    

«        i    envy    the    fools    who    believe    they    can    escape    their    land    &    not    carry    its    fate    with    them.        »    she    has    felt    the    weight    of    her    forest    on    her    shoulders    for    years    &    she    is    the    fateless    one.    idiots,    all    of    them,    thinking    they    are    free    to    go    &    free    to    live    !!    cannot    they    see    the    way    fate    has    put    threads    around    their    wrists    ?    the    way    they    are    hanging    by    the    throat,    their    lives    a    rope    too    thick    not    to    carry    them    until    death    ?    cannot    they    feel    the    choking,    the    dying    ?    perhaps    that    is    what    the    curse    is    about    :    feeling    what    others    ignore    oh    so    easily.    alas,    ishtar    is    not    selfish    :    she'll    share    the    burden    with    a    smile    on    her    lips,    happy    to    know    they    will    have    known    about    the    burning    long    before    the    flames    licked    their    ankles.