There is another unicorn staring at me in the mirrors. She is white as sun-bleached bones, moonlight spun into a body. Her horn is as straight as mine is crooked, solid as mine is hollow, soft as mine is sharp.
She is as lovely as I am terrible.
And I want to kill her for it.
She is as lovely as I am terrible.
And I want to kill her for it.
Isolt taps her horn against the crystal mirror just to watch it break. A fracture spiderwebs across its surface in arcane patterns, cracking the image of the unicorn looking mournfully out from it.
As the sound of shattering glass fills the air, Isolt wonders if she feels dead yet.
Another tap against the glass with her horn, and the fractures spread further. Another, and the unicorn trapped in the star-skeleton starts to cry. Her tears are quicksilver bright, falling in rivulets down her cheeks. And in all the places where the cuts spread across her skin, she bleeds silver blood. It leaks out from the mirror, coating her horn in unicorn blood.
A final tap and the crystal shatters into a thousand thousand pieces, and that other unicorn shatters with it. Isolt laughs, and her laughter twines like music through the star’s and the unicorn’s deaths. Her perfect teeth, her moonlit horn, her unscarred, unbloodied, unbroken skin — all of it lies now as dust at her feet.
It has always been the most beautiful things that made her feel all the more monstrous.
She turns away from the broken mirror, her eyes burning to see all the other star-skeletons staring back at her with watching eyes. There, a fox, with daisies blooming and wilting in his empty eyes. And here a lion, with rotten teeth dropping like tears at his feet. A wolf, a fairy, a wendigo, a shadow — all of them watching her. A snarl rises in her throat, rattling like thunder in her lungs and oh, how her flower-printed bones leap at the thrill of it.
There are no more unicorns watching her now.
Her walk turns to a trot, then a run, then a gallop in which she stretches out long and low and loses herself in the furious beat of her hooves cracking the crystal ground with every step. She turns into madness streaking through the graveyard of stars, a blur of color tearing apart a colorless island. Even when it seems she has been running forever, when it becomes a wonder she has not run into the ocean, still the echo of madness burning in her veins urges her on. She runs until her lungs tremble and wilt, and her heart flutters like a dying thing taking its last breath.
It is the endlessness of it that makes her stop, with the sound of her blood singing rising above the crystal shattering beneath her hooves. And when she turns to the next mirror that rises tall and pale before her, she does not see the other horse standing in front of it, not at first.
She sees only the eyes of the unicorn staring out at her, with skin as red as blood.
And it steals every thought, carves away every bit of hunger and loneliness from her heart.
Another tap against the glass with her horn, and the fractures spread further. Another, and the unicorn trapped in the star-skeleton starts to cry. Her tears are quicksilver bright, falling in rivulets down her cheeks. And in all the places where the cuts spread across her skin, she bleeds silver blood. It leaks out from the mirror, coating her horn in unicorn blood.
A final tap and the crystal shatters into a thousand thousand pieces, and that other unicorn shatters with it. Isolt laughs, and her laughter twines like music through the star’s and the unicorn’s deaths. Her perfect teeth, her moonlit horn, her unscarred, unbloodied, unbroken skin — all of it lies now as dust at her feet.
It has always been the most beautiful things that made her feel all the more monstrous.
She turns away from the broken mirror, her eyes burning to see all the other star-skeletons staring back at her with watching eyes. There, a fox, with daisies blooming and wilting in his empty eyes. And here a lion, with rotten teeth dropping like tears at his feet. A wolf, a fairy, a wendigo, a shadow — all of them watching her. A snarl rises in her throat, rattling like thunder in her lungs and oh, how her flower-printed bones leap at the thrill of it.
There are no more unicorns watching her now.
Her walk turns to a trot, then a run, then a gallop in which she stretches out long and low and loses herself in the furious beat of her hooves cracking the crystal ground with every step. She turns into madness streaking through the graveyard of stars, a blur of color tearing apart a colorless island. Even when it seems she has been running forever, when it becomes a wonder she has not run into the ocean, still the echo of madness burning in her veins urges her on. She runs until her lungs tremble and wilt, and her heart flutters like a dying thing taking its last breath.
It is the endlessness of it that makes her stop, with the sound of her blood singing rising above the crystal shattering beneath her hooves. And when she turns to the next mirror that rises tall and pale before her, she does not see the other horse standing in front of it, not at first.
She sees only the eyes of the unicorn staring out at her, with skin as red as blood.
And it steals every thought, carves away every bit of hunger and loneliness from her heart.
