Change.
‘Or is this about how I fail to worship the ground beneath your very feet? You’re not a God in my eyes any longer. You’re just a man. My husband. The man who beat me for not praying to him fervently enough. - Is that what this is about, Zephyr? That I’ve grown wings and learned to fly? It is, isn’t it?’
‘I’m sure you wish it was. So that could tell yourself, ‘I cheated death, held a grudge over my husband, and can now say I am the epitome of female power’.’
‘What else could it be about? You are reeling from from no longer having a disciple; I am no longer a zealot in your victimless war. And Kamora can be. She can be drugged and molded into exactly what you need:  a disciple. Holy shit.- Holy fuck, that’s what it’s about. You can’t control me anymore, so you need to control someone else.’
Were either of them right? They would never know. While they had lived together, been wed, of course -they knew very little about the other. But precedent had been set. Regardless of his words, he would always be the man who’d lain hands on her for not obeying, who’d clipped her wings in order to keep them chained to one another. Perhaps he -had- changed. She’d never believe him. And perhaps that was damning enough evidence that she herself never could.
‘One day you’ll look back at this moment and realize you spent too long living in the past to see that you’re dragging it into the future. - Do you want to come home to me? Or are you done with me?’
The damning question. The question neither of them wanted to answer because they’d rather claw at each other, skin the flesh from the other to see what lay inside, hurl accusations until they were both winded.
‘I love you, Zephyr, but I am tired of being the company you enjoy misery with.’ ‘You proved it with every action and every word. - I can’t say I’m surprised, at least. Or devastated.’
How could he be? Had he ever really felt? She didn’t think so -and that’s why she had fallen so madly in love with him. ‘We are not the same people we once were. I think we can both admit that, finally. - Don’t go back to the needle, Zephyr, it doesn’t suit you.’ ‘I would never go back to that because you left. You aren’t worth that. Watch ya’self. You’ll wish you’d have stayed in your grave. Promise it won’t be the last you see of me.’
There it was. The Zephyr she’d loved. That diatribe was almost enough for her to run into his arms, plead forgiveness. But something within her pure, intact brain kept her planted. Now she knew better. But instead, after walking from view with her head held high, she did what she’d always done best: she ran. As fast as those new, unfamiliar legs could carry her, under Silvermoon’s great arch, into the woods -faster, further, carry on. Acalinia ran until her veins carried acid and her lungs refused to expand again, and then her knees hit the grass, palms following quickly after. She screamed; shrieked until her beaten vocal chords cut the note in a tortured fade, allowing the woods returning to their former silence, and causing the woman to beat her fists feverently against the dirt.
She couldn’t comprehend her own anger and that in turn escalated it. Her claw-like nails dug into the flesh of her scalp, tearing at the hair follicles, only adding to the unsettling slew of Eredun flowing from the woman’s lips as she pressed her forehead into the ground.
People do not change.
