HOW DOES A MYTH COME TO BE?
Birds are singing overhead, and nothing is as it should be —
Iscariot opens her eyes and the sky has turned from the bluest, darkest night to a clear outpouring of white sunlight, not a shred of cloud to be seen; it sends a spear of pain through her eyes and into the back of her skull. The dirt under her cheek — well, it’s not even dirt anymore, it’s bright white sand burning a heat signature into her skin. Wind roars past and ruffles her thick hair. The ocean is howling a few yards away, showering her in a foam of salt. (At least she thinks it’s the ocean, can only assume it’s the ocean, considering she’s never seen it before.)
All of this could be ignored — explained, even — if not for the birds.
There have never been anything but crows at home. And so, of course, this cannot be home.
Fear spikes through her like lightning and Iscariot surges to her feet, hooves slipping in the sand, her balance compromised for the second that she goes scrabbling for a grasp — she feels her heart pounding in her mouth with the ferocity of something scared and sick, and oh she does not want to think about her marking but even the word sick makes it unavoidable, and she can’t she can’t she can’t not look—
She turns her head over her shoulder, and the marking is stagnant, just as it was yesterday. The feeling of relief that hits her is so strong it nearly knocks her off her feet.
Her whole head buzzes like a swarm of something, a song black and deep and dark in the back of her mind. The island (it is an island, isn’t it?) is thrumming much in the same way, like a heartbeat, a current parallel to the one that pulses through her brain. The air is horribly humid, presses in on her throat tight as a hand. The threat of rain is still prominent; Iscariot feels it deep in her bones and in the way there is a storm collecting on the very edges of the horizon.
The beach is empty, but footprints still reign dark in the sand. Iscariot shakes her head, loosing a shower of grains, dry leaves and partially crushed shells; the skull wrapped into her braids is too stubborn to budge, and so are the tiny turquoise beads in leather. The smell of home (something heavy, smoke and tobacco, something sort of green too) breaks into the air around them, loosened by her movement, and Iscariot’s shaky breath is somewhat soothed by it.
Birds are singing in the trees, and nothing is right —
Iscariot opens her eyes and the sky has turned from the bluest, darkest night to a clear outpouring of white sunlight, not a shred of cloud to be seen; it sends a spear of pain through her eyes and into the back of her skull. The dirt under her cheek — well, it’s not even dirt anymore, it’s bright white sand burning a heat signature into her skin. Wind roars past and ruffles her thick hair. The ocean is howling a few yards away, showering her in a foam of salt. (At least she thinks it’s the ocean, can only assume it’s the ocean, considering she’s never seen it before.)
All of this could be ignored — explained, even — if not for the birds.
There have never been anything but crows at home. And so, of course, this cannot be home.
Fear spikes through her like lightning and Iscariot surges to her feet, hooves slipping in the sand, her balance compromised for the second that she goes scrabbling for a grasp — she feels her heart pounding in her mouth with the ferocity of something scared and sick, and oh she does not want to think about her marking but even the word sick makes it unavoidable, and she can’t she can’t she can’t not look—
She turns her head over her shoulder, and the marking is stagnant, just as it was yesterday. The feeling of relief that hits her is so strong it nearly knocks her off her feet.
Her whole head buzzes like a swarm of something, a song black and deep and dark in the back of her mind. The island (it is an island, isn’t it?) is thrumming much in the same way, like a heartbeat, a current parallel to the one that pulses through her brain. The air is horribly humid, presses in on her throat tight as a hand. The threat of rain is still prominent; Iscariot feels it deep in her bones and in the way there is a storm collecting on the very edges of the horizon.
The beach is empty, but footprints still reign dark in the sand. Iscariot shakes her head, loosing a shower of grains, dry leaves and partially crushed shells; the skull wrapped into her braids is too stubborn to budge, and so are the tiny turquoise beads in leather. The smell of home (something heavy, smoke and tobacco, something sort of green too) breaks into the air around them, loosened by her movement, and Iscariot’s shaky breath is somewhat soothed by it.
Birds are singing in the trees, and nothing is right —
