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In the heavy blue she moved. The cacophonous red pacing of her unholy heart thrashed against the silence that held a finger to her lips, ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR, over and over again in the heartbreaking hum of a collision that unfolded before her eyes a thousand times and back again. Where did her mind end and the blood begin? What, in this chaos - in this solitude, had she become? It was a question she could not face for fear of the answers that lay in its wake. The glasshewn threads holding her together glinted in the moonlight, revealing a skeleton filled with a cyclonic emptiness that rattled between the hollow of her bones, left alone to scream into the night without a soul to hear its plight. For was not that the nature of grief? To drain the very light from one's life and leave them with only the husk of their flesh and skin, damned to wander this dark barren earth with only their perforated honeycomb memories. The mountain had been calling her name. Rhoswen, it whispered at the birth of every new moon, Rhoswen, it hummed in the floodlight of the sun. At first it had been easy to ignore: it had been nothing but an itch at the back of her neck. But slowly it had grown into a plague that set her body aflame. And for the first time in a long time the woman felt something beyond the eternal grey torpor that had woven its way into her very essence. What that feeling was she could not, would not, name. And from the shadows she had come; patiently, obediently. The violet blush of a new dawn had begun to bloom by the time she reached Veneror's foothills, and the kaleidoscopic light fractured in such a way behind the mountain's crest that it almost broke her heart to gaze upon it. "I am here. I have come." |
