Desreal: blah, blah, blah, all talk, no walk.

Ah, Saphira, ridiculous, pompous Saphira, blood poisoned, diluted, soul fragile as the ice flurries of her element; what is your hell Saphira? Is it your children dying? No, for you have no love for or from your spawns, Saphira. Is it the fall of your strength? No, for you are no more impressive than the leaves in the wind; nobody fears you, nobody has cause to respect you, for even your title is worthless, common, fool's gold; is it your Falcon dying, Saphira, beyond the reach of your fragile powers, the ones you deny? Is it the knowing you are nothing, and will be nothing, forevermore, when you are overwhelmed by powers much stronger than you?

Perhaps it is him, your Alshain, choking and dying under a stranger’s foot – only to find the foot is yours, that you have ruined everything you touch, weak, delicate, fragile Saphira.

What causes you hurt, Saphira, what brings you torment? For her Hell is not one of Fire and Brimstone, hers is the true Hell, the inescapable Hell, that not even your rivers can quench. It is your Hell, Saphira, your personal Hell, your psychological Hell, not torture, no, nor foolish mythology.

What do you see when you are in Hell, Saphira? For Kalleis knows what she sees; she was born of death and ghosts never held sway over her mind; instead, they only strengthen her will and she rejoices in her frenzied abandon, and leaves her strength to her fire, gladly, welcoming death as she has welcomed life – she trades not one for the other, but delights in both, and this, Saphira, this is what you will never have: you are not frightening and you are not worthy, Saphira, you have never been, you will never be: you are no more than dewdrops that fade into vapor, unremarkable, and unremarked.

Mother, mother, she sings, but her earth devours her illusions, the earth that she welcomes with the whole of her being: foolish, laughable, presumptuous Saphira, so high in her own self-importance, eyes shuttered by her own ridicule: let her bring her illusions, let her raise her siren song, for do you know what is her ultimate wish, Saphira?

It is your death, Saphira, for she loves death, and she has no love in this world that does not live – no ghosts for you to rise, Saphira, for she has no father but the one you stole, whose mind you have splintered and weakened, the one you ruined; and even now her mother’s heart beats and rejoices in the distant sand; she loves no one and hates no one, Saphira, but you, and you are part of the living, and your death is her greatest desire.

What do you desire, Saphira, and what do you fear?

“You living,” she smiles tenderly, a child’s smile, a child broken and torn by you, Saphira; “oh, you are sweet,” and her fire strikes, and curls, and binds: not even her water can quench this, for her water has no say upon the child’s soul, and this soul will gladly part – but she will drag you with her, Saphira, because you, Saphira, underestimate the strength and the will of hatred, and pain, of a broken child who has nothing to lose.

What will you do, Saphira, when the bindings bring you down, hogtied, burning their way into your flesh, the unquenchable, mad fire of her? There will be no rescue, Saphira, no Falcon to cheat you of death, as you have done before (should you not have died, Saphira, in bringing the sapling you broke back to life?); they do it now, because so she wills and so it will happen, and not all the oceans you so readily abandon will put out – oh, delusional fool, coward Saphira, where is your strength?

She is no warrior, Saphira, she is worse, much worse. She is a ruined child, a broken child, and you are her Hell.

“Mother,” she sighs, delirious, even now feeling the euphoria of death welcomed and loved; “oh, Mother, kill her, kill her, poison her, take her,”

She will die, Saphira, but you will die with her;

“He will follow you in death.”

How does it feel to burn, and burn, and burn, Saphira?

kalleis;
pain melted in tears, and was pleasure;
death tingled with blood, and was life.