ISOLT
I wonder how they — how any of them — can stand it. Are they not screaming inside? Do they not care that they cannot hear their own thoughts above the noise?
Is it only me?
The music slips away like the screams of the dying when Isolt steps into the overgrown yard. Peace, she would call it, if she had to call it anything — the death of things had always been most peaceful to her.
And now as the silence dips deeper, and the shadows between the lights grow longer, and the vines crisscrossing the ground begin to shiver — Isolt sighs with contentment. The shivers that have been running down her spine since the moment her hooves touched sand in place of snow come more slowly now, less violently. She quivers as finely as sand in an hourglass that has just been flipped back over, soothing the hunger (if only for a minute. Just like the hourglass, the sand is running out, the calm can only last so long.)
The vines are still creeping slowly away from her when she spots the other horse.
It is her blood-colored cloak that catches Isolt’s eye first, a stark familiarity standing pressed between the leaves and the foliage. It is her colors of death, and destruction, and all things in between that makes her turn her head like a wolf looking for the moon.
But it is something else entirely, something she has no words for, that has her creeping slowly forward. Her tail blade drags lines through the grass and vines, cutting open the belly of the courtyard.
And all it takes is one look from the mare’s amber eyes for her to start wondering at all the ways she might pull the sunlight from them.
The wondering gnawing at her belly brings her up to the edge of the booth, until leaves turn black and crumble onto the velvet cloth and rot creeps further and further along it. The candles seem to flicker when she draws closer, and closer, and closer, and she does not pretend it is the wind that makes the flames shiver so close to their wicks. Wonder makes her eyes burn brightly as rubies, when she drags her gaze from one candle, to the next, and the next, and the next — and then finally to Hagar’s face.
Something is whispering in her bones, begging her to turn each drop of her blood to something profane, something monstrous, something made to tear the life from hearts. But her hourglass is nearly full, and for the barest of moments —
Isolt feels almost like a unicorn instead of a beast.
Her voice is whisper-thin, the rasp of winter frost coloring weak lungs black and brittle. And she can almost pretend the coiled thing lying in wait inside of her chest is sleeping instead of only resting when she says, “hello.”
In the darkness behind the table, where the ivy grows thick and tangled, something blinks. Isolt blinks back.
And all the while the sand in the hourglass is draining.
@Hagar !
"wilting // blooming"
"wilting // blooming"
