Swiftcurrent Creek [ a melody for the ancients]

Her legs trembled as she attempted to navigate the increasingly laborious terrain.  Her lungs ached – withered by the embittered winds – every inhalation weaving a whittled blade of agony across the breadth of her ribcage.  It seemed progressively arduous to draw in oxygen, and no matter how much her body yearned for the relief of an exquisitely large intake of air, it rejected it all the same.  Illness had begun to creep – pale, deathly fingers enclosing upon the asphyxiating ember of her life force – though in her medicinal ignorance she is none the wiser to the origin of her suffering.  She only knows the most instinctual means of longevity, and she knows that in solitude, her odds of continuance dismally dwindle as time effortlessly ticks on – 

Beneath her dainty paws stones begin to bite at the soft, malleable flesh.  Her face is an amalgamation of annoyance and pain – inside, her heart shrivels with hopelessness, threatening to sting her dehydrated visions with tears.  If not for her stubbornness, she would have given in long ago – but she was not just some expendable pisher.  She was royalty, and the pride of her heritage burned in her veins, urging her onward despite her shortcomings.  Despite the anguish.  Despite her weakness.  No – “Go on, you stupid girl,” she hissed at herself – she was not weak.  Who else but her could have made it this far?  

She adjusted herself, steeling against the acrid wind which threaded through her obsidian hairs, her now crownless brow rising high upon her shoulders.  The true image of a stately, hardened woman, and she sang – a melodic tune which echoed across the border, a summoning.  It was time to survive.