for those who dream of stranger worlds, It was not the answer she had been hoping for. Naively, childishly, she had prayed for a vial of wisdom to pass between those cinder-dry lips; a whisper of truth, a rasp of direction. For this strange man bore features that reminded her of silt and loam that had laid dormant beneath a superficial topsoil - ancient and enduring and passive beyond. He was marble and stone; an effigy born in the age of Rome; surely he had seen all the wonder and horror Sabine only dreamt of? But he has no answers and he speaks no wisdom and Sabine could never fault a stranger for keeping those unlit secrets close to their breast. Like weeds in dank cellars, they would grow still; blooming from the ugliness that lived in the hearts of men. In the end, the girl knew she had no right to open this stranger's cellar and peer down upon the unholy greenhouse that had taken root in the place nobody dared to look. The oasis has laid its trail, and Sabine can taste the water on the air for it fills the arid sky with a milky fullness. Now three paces behind her pale companion, she stumbles twice over wads of rock hidden beneath the golden wash of sand; sheepishly she hopes the nameless ghost does to glance back, for she knows he will see so transparently how young and unprepared she is for the desert. It is not the circular haven of the Oasis that catches Sabine's glittering eyes, but the smoke that angrily kisses the sky; violating the bohemian-blue firmament with a slash of lead here and a slice of iron there. It feels like an omen and her heart laughs like a cruel sister at the fear that wails in her head. When again she looks to the man, he is not upon his feet. And it strikes her just how defeated he looks. Sabine does not think she has ever seen a creature so tired. She wants to reach out her seraphic muzzle, to place it upon his brow so that his chest might become full with the electricity that flows like a river through her blood. She wants to tell him that, in time, the world will right itself once more and the birds will sing Hosanna for the beauty that they see. But when he speaks, breaking the silence with a dull thudding hammer, gesturing her on toward her fate, Sabine does not do any of those things. She does not brush the tangled web of hair from his eyes and she cannot tell him all will be okay, because she does not want to lie. With a soft, acknowledging dip of her crown Sabine bids farewell, though the words she wishes she could say fail her so terribly. The sadness might break her down the middle if she should so much as try to speak of the knot in her ribs at the thought of leaving him where he lay. And when she begins to move away she tries to think of Rhoswen, of the bitter strength that had carried her mother so far and she holds it so tight that it burns - but you see, it is the only thing that stops her from turning back. |
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