SWAN SONG
For a moment she prepares for the worst; she prepares for them to use her, and for Isardis to rip her throat out after. Alas, she does not fear. She feels numb, empty, and her only concern is for the helpless whelps, and thus she fights. Alas, when Isardis moves she does not sit and quiver. Together they are like a well-oiled machine; together they have killed multiple times. And thus, when he seizes the throat of her first assailant and the pressure is released, she turns upon the other one. Her broken limb makes her unsteady, but the adrenaline gives her the means by which to sink her daggers into his life source. He struggles, and she falls, her weight dragging his front half down as she clings to the delicate tissue. He struggles, and she does not let go. He struggles, and he dies, much like his comrade. Only when his fruitless twitching has been ceased for a few moments does she pull herself, clumsily, back to her feet. Her leg is twisted and mangled, and her red eyes hazily sit upon Isardis. ?Are you here to punish me?? she asks him, a dry laugh escaping from her throat. The fates had punished her enough; forced to birth children with no aide, forced to be violated in the dark of a cave, forced to give up the titles and land that she?d helped to build. Now, she seems a shadow, a wreck, and yet she is not quite defeated. ?If so, you are much too late,? she tells him. She feels her legs shaking somewhat, and she steadies them. She is exhausted; she?s had to give birth and hunt for herself, defend and feed her children by herself, and it is obvious by her appearance. And yet, she has survived it all. She is here, she is present, and Isardis ought to see that as a testament to her strength. If ever there is something to say about her, never let it be that she cowered from adversity, or that she is weak of will. It had wavered once, but never before and never after, and once is hardly enough to condemn a women of weakness. |