Passiveshipping (Kisara x Mrs. Ishtar)
. . .
Who was she?
It was a question that often haunted the woman when she paused in the hall of kings. Walking through those cold halls, full of paintings of the dead, echoing and empty and frightening, there was one spot of softness. It was her, the small painting of the white-haired woman beneath the painting of the nameless pharaoh's successor.
She must have been important, to have her image affixed her. She was buried here, too, the woman knew that. Right beside the successor of the nameless pharaoh. Had she been the man's lover? His wife? Why was her name not here?
She would often stop to run her fingers along the worn words. Perhaps it had been written here, once, the reason that this beautiful woman had been buried here and given such a high honor, to be entombed alongside the great pharaohs of legend.
She seems so sad.
The woman wasn't sure how she knew that. The ancient art of her ancestors was not one to show the emotion of its subjects. They were such flat, stationary images. She often chafed at them, longing for the free and expressive art of the surface, that she had seen as a girl, walking the surface and listening for the pharaoh's return—before her husband had insisted that she stay out of sight, in the dark and cold and death. So how, she thought, did she know the beautiful girl was sad?
It's the sound of her heart. Pulsing in the walls...she's still here. A part of her, at least.
Who was she?
Why was she here?
There was a power, there, that pulsed in her heart. The same power that the woman had felt at the tablet in mourning of the nameless pharaoh, in the carving of the great dragon that had belonged to the successor. Were the two connected?
You're so quiet.
Her eyes stinging with tears, she would find herself in that dark hallway again, leaning against the wall beside the woman's image.
Help me. Give me strength.
Because she had been strong, hadn't she? This mysterious, white-haired woman with the heart of a dragon. Quiet, sad...but so strong.
Grant me your power. Please.
The woman herself was too passive. Too quiet, too reserved, to willing to sit and watch as hebecame more and more violent with the passing of the days. She couldn't raise her voice to him, let alone her hand to defend even her own son.
Please. I am not strong enough.
And sometimes, she thought she could feel cool hands on her shoulders, a whisper in her ear.
"You can do it. I was not strong, either...but you will find the strength. Believe in your heart."
She wished. She hoped that the thoughts were true.
But perhaps, in the end, they couldn't be. Not all of them could be strong in the end.
. . .
A/N: Sad one :( Next is Passionshipping (Pegasus x Jonouchi).
