how does a myth
come to be
come to be
Strange, that this girl is so brazen in asking her questions and offering her help. Iscariot has never been like that. Always shy, always careful, she minces her words and twists them, please be smooth as silk, and yet now she finds herself grateful for the bluntness of this girl.
They are all running out of time, all the time. Perhaps bluntness is the correct way to be, or the smartest. But still Iscariot does not find herself quite comfortable with answering straight: she ducks her head, shadows gathering around her skull in the dimming light. She twists away from having to answer or even having to speak.
Her throat feels raw, and her word feels wrong. It does not quite sound like her. Who is this girl who knows no better than to trust strangers? Why is she now so soft-minded? If a blush could show across Iscariot’s dark skin, it might now. But darkness of many kinds—that has always been her savior.
“Yes,” Iscariot admits, and her voice is deep as an earthquake-rumble. It builds in her chest like inner earth’s fire. She blinks up at Leto with bright amber eyes, and her ears flicker, and her body shudders from neck through spine. Cure. The thought of it is too good and too holy, too far out of reach to consider getting her hopes up for it, but oh, wouldn’t that be spectacular—a home, a cure, a life less saddled with sorrow—Iscariot breathes out of her teeth, rattled by anticipation.
She asks: “Will you take me there?”
And even without an answer Iscariot presses a kiss to the girl’s forehead and steps swiftly toward the edge of the island and the bridge of black glass that might hold their weight.
