Ishiah, of course, recognized on some level that this was not the normal way of things. One moment, he was standing on a familiar dune, feet sinking quickly into white sand so fine that it might have been chalk, surveying the homeland, caught in the Middle East. The next, he was surrounded by people, their faces indistinct and barely beyond his memory, but each unique in its own way. One had an overly large nose, like that of a hawk. Another, eyes that were bright and framed with lashes long and few, spindly legs of a spider. All of them were their own, and yet Ishiah could not quite remember, and it struck him as odd for an instant— only an instant— that seeing the present should require the use of his memory at all. Already, breathing was a chore, air burning down the length of his throat. His wings started to beat, kicking up sand, but no sooner had his feet broke contact with the ground did Ishiah find himself grounded again in a flash, strong arms held by those same people, and wings tied roughly to a stake.
No, a crucifix, he reminded himself, watching as they spread his arms and tied both wrists off.
And he was scared.
The sound of Lucy's voice called him back to attention— Lucy, where had that name come from?— as Ishiah spared a laborious glance over to the newcomer, dressed so strangely compared to the rest. Colored differently as well, a little more vibrant, a little less washed out by the rays of the sun.
"Who...?" he asked, wings coming and going in flashes, and feathers turning quickly in the wind as they came to a rest on the ground. "Run. Run, Lucy, there's nothing for you here."
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Ishiah, of course, recognized on some level that this was not the normal way of things. One moment, he was standing on a familiar dune, feet sinking quickly into white sand so fine that it might have been chalk, surveying the homeland, caught in the Middle East. The next, he was surrounded by people, their faces indistinct and barely beyond his memory, but each unique in its own way. One had an overly large nose, like that of a hawk. Another, eyes that were bright and framed with lashes long and few, spindly legs of a spider. All of them were their own, and yet Ishiah could not quite remember, and it struck him as odd for an instant— only an instant— that seeing the present should require the use of his memory at all. Already, breathing was a chore, air burning down the length of his throat. His wings started to beat, kicking up sand, but no sooner had his feet broke contact with the ground did Ishiah find himself grounded again in a flash, strong arms held by those same people, and wings tied roughly to a stake.
No, a crucifix, he reminded himself, watching as they spread his arms and tied both wrists off.
And he was scared.
The sound of Lucy's voice called him back to attention— Lucy, where had that name come from?— as Ishiah spared a laborious glance over to the newcomer, dressed so strangely compared to the rest. Colored differently as well, a little more vibrant, a little less washed out by the rays of the sun.
"Who...?" he asked, wings coming and going in flashes, and feathers turning quickly in the wind as they came to a rest on the ground. "Run. Run, Lucy, there's nothing for you here."