ISOLT
horses. Fires are for sacrifices, and the only one that matters is that borne of flesh.
Isolt is looking for her sister in between the flames.
The smoke is burning her eyes as she steps closer, and closer, and closer — pressing in until she can see the fires dancing across the backs of her eyelids every time she closes her eyes. And every time the fire changes colors she opens her eyes again and looks — and looks and looks and looks.
But she does not find her.
There are shadows in the fires, and other shapes, things that are weighted with deeper meanings she does not understand. None of it makes sense to her, and none of it matters without her twin beside her. She does not understand why the fire is so hungry, or why the people around her stop to feed it with wood as often as with herbs. She does not stop to ask it.
She does not stop at all as she weaves between the fires, close enough to feel the heat of them singing her hair. And she is not listening to the singing, or the cheering, or the music that weaves like smoke between them all. She is lost, lost, lost, and with every second that passes she feels the ache inside of her chest grow. It feels like —
oh, it feels like her heart is being torn apart, like the other half of it is floating away somewhere on the smoke that spirals up into the sky, somewhere she cannot reach or follow.
She sets her jaw, feels her teeth grind together. And when she sees the storm-colored girl from before, the one with death draped around her shoulders and hanging in the shape of a crow from her brow, she does not hesitate. All her aching is growing teeth, and claws, and desperation, and if she cannot find her sister to ease it — then this, this will do.
“Why are you here?” The words sound like an accusation hanging from her teeth. And her blade begins to tap, tap, tap against her hip as her tail curls up and rests there on her flank.
Isolt wonders if it bothers her as much now as it did in the forest.
@maybird !
"wilting // blooming"
"wilting // blooming"
