“Angharad.” The name reaches out in the small death void between them. There is a song to it and a smell, like decay upon which moss and flowers learn to grow. Maybe when they leave this place moss will bloom upward from the rot like a mausoleum blooms out of grave-dirt. Thana hopes so and she's unashamed of her part in the cycle.
She was born from sickness and light, although she's not sure if that makes her reaper, god or something in-between. To her creating a hundred small deaths is still creating.
Thana wonders if the other mare dreams of moss beneath wilting flower and ivy pooling out like veins from sun-dried skulls. She wonder if she can see the beauty as well as the horror.
Angharad looks at her with something sparking like fire in her gaze, a fire that consumes and recreated. That look makes something other than dreams of moss bloom in Thana's chest. It creeps up like a weed through the dull, deep and dark fury that roils aimlessly inside her bones. The weed curls around her spine and reaches out for her heart with hungry, black roots. She steps closer and her horn tilts away so that the point reaches towards the twilight as if to say, look there, look at the colors of the sky and not the black rot and death between us. Thana takes another step closer.
And suddenly she has a name for the weed and it terrifies her. She should not feel. She should not feel--
Lonely.
“I think we are to call this place home.” Her voice sounds like rust and magic and petals unfold on the weed in her heart. Thana wants to sound like anything but lost and full of nothing but hollowness that feels like hunger. The wind picks up again and she cants her horn to stop the singing, wanting nothing of weapon song between them. “Will you walk with me?” Her hoof slides across the ground, dragging all the rot with it. Her tail cuts the grass shorter. There is no helping the way a hundred ends begin around every inch of space she fills.
Thana wonders if they would each start to slowly die if they touched. Would it it be worth it to dissolve down to dust and smoke just to feel something other than that weed in her heart?
“Just for a little while.” She whispers, because surely nothing wants to walk with death for very long.
@Angharad
