if anyone would like to know Opalescent's story:Where the dawn rises, thorns fall. The winged creatures of the night, taken in by the roses. Whoever came before them only fell. A crown, forged from blood and thorns, felled whatever it touched. Only one could truly master the weight of the wings.
Once, when dawn did not fall and dusk did not rise, there was imbalance. Thorns of silver and red cascaded down the old river trail. Only there could balance be found. Red embraced the paws, silver kissed the head, and green thorns prickled around the hips. Thus stood the Queen of the Crown—the Wolf of Thorns.
Death kissed the grave. When the thorns rose, so too did it come. At the dawn of day, where death lurked, the crows cawed. The thorns could not bear the roses' weeping, nor the nightingale, who, burdened by all the queen's glory, drooped and fell. The feathers—white as ever—were stained red. The red of the thorns dripped and fell.
Roses bloomed, leaves fell. When the blood rises, she calls. The nightingale has risen, her call miserable. A crown forms, blood seeping, when the crows caw, she calls again. The winged ones gather, they beckon and they call. One sings faster, blending in with the night. White and corrupted, they fly to the skies. Only one can follow, but none do. Another cycle, where the roses wilt.
They bond- the nightingale and the queen, they sweep their wings and they dance to the moon. The roses creep, the thorns sharp. Where there was balance, now stood peace. The quiet of the night, where the winged ones sleep. The queen and the nightingale, the roses and the thorns.
She has risen, her call forgotten. They sing, they dance, they do so again. The moon rises, the sun sets. The nightingale rises above all else. She tries to call, but it is unheard. The crows watch, glistening like crystal. They see, they forget, and they flap their wings. They caw, not a call, not barely, but it’s enough. The nightingale notices, she doesn’t ignore.
With a flap of her wings, and a crawl of the thorns, she and the queen, a pair once more, dance to the moonlight and shake their wings. With a flap of the wings, she takes to the sky, calling, crowing, trying to caw. Again they notice, the crows of the night, but now they croak, their caws never heard.
The pond wobbles, fading, but the memories are there, and the queen can see. She mourns, she calls, but the crows never answer, only when the nightingale appears, do they ever see. She erupts in a dance, again and again, now, nothing matters but the crows. The crows, ancient beings, see and they fly, far away. Taking to the sky in a graceful sweep, they fly, never to be seen. Their memories fade, the pond disappears. The winged ones call, and this time- to the queen’s dismay, they answer.
Caws fill the sky, and the nightingale remembers, she cannot recall when, how, or why she does, but she who knows all remembers the sound. The queen cannot remember, but she recalls the black onyx feathers of the crows of the sky. Calling again, one with the nightingale, they reach to the sky, grasping for something- anything. But nothing reacts, not even the barest sound. Thorns twist, they turn, they grab the wings of the poor, poor, nightingale. The flowers bloom, not roses. The roses wilt, turning to thorns. Bright yellow, those flowers, bright yellow- a new season- a new bird.
With a sigh and a wilt, the nightingale relents. The queen droops. Their wings wither, the thorns shrivel. They give up, to the agony of the thorns, to this new winged one, perhaps even a new queen.
They wilt, unregrettingly, ‘till one dawn. A new crow. Caaw… Caaaaw. Two caws. That was all it took. The roses bloomed. Red as blood. They slithered around, like red snakes in the evening sun. The dusk bloomed with it. The thorns lengthened, they sharpened. The nightingale called. Day and night it called. With no response, it flew back to the queen. The queen pawed at the crow day and night with no response, she flew back to the nightingale.
“To minds of the same creature.” The thorns breathed. They braced themselves. The nightingale called again, with a hint of a howl. The queen howled again, with a hint of a nightingale.
The winged one hissed, it prayed, it flew. It cared and croaked to the crow. The crow turned. Roses bloomed towards the crow. It grew, it engulfed the crow. The nightingale sang its song, this time of acceptance. The queen howled, with the roses and the nightingale, they had something the winged one did not have- unity.
Now, the yellow wavered, it winced, it trailed away the winged one hissed it's final call. “Caw! Caw! To the heavens I'll go! Leave this beast and be with me!”
The crow took off, waiting for the queen and nightingale, as if to say, “Finally, I've been waiting for you to realize you're of the same being. Your thorns have called, the roses have bloomed, all it needs is you.”
XDragonfruitx
