isolt.I can already taste his death upon my tongue, caught like a seed between my teeth. I am holding it there against my mandible, as I grind my jaw like I am gnawing on bones.
I know his death is not today. But I know, too, how he will die.
And I wonder if he can see it there in my eyes, in my teeth, in the spiral of my horn that is aching for his blood to fill it.
I know his death is not today. But I know, too, how he will die.
And I wonder if he can see it there in my eyes, in my teeth, in the spiral of my horn that is aching for his blood to fill it.
The feel of his antlers against his horn, of his skin beneath her lips (so close to her teeth, so achingly close —) Isolt is coming alive.She can feel her blood singing sweetly in her veins like a pack of coyotes as they fall into the chase of a wild rabbit, a thousand yips and bays and snarls tearing the landscape of her arteries apart. And all those coyotes, all those vultures, all those monsters tearing holes in her stomach and reaching up her throat with their claws (reaching for him) are begging her to dip the tip of her horn there, to break the fragile skin of his temple and push, push, push until he becomes just another risen thing bowing at her feet.
She wants to. Oh how she wants to listen to that magic growing teeth and thorns in her blood. How she wants to be like her mother-monster who does not relent, who does not give, who only takes, and takes, and takes.
But the song his blood is singing to her’s is so sweet, and his voice as he speaks of death is like honey she wants to drink. So she only leans in, and she listens, and she whispers to the wild things not yet. Just a little bit longer.
She wants to hear him beg for it, before she unmakes him.
She wants him to look at her like she is the true-god, the new-god, the only god who is able to end his fragile life and grant him a new sense of immortality (one spent in worship of her, with golden poppies for eyes and chrysanthemums filling the gaps of his spine.)
She wants her sister to be here when she rips his soul from between his ribs and gives it to her like a gift, like a garden waiting for flowers to root and bloom.
So when he leaps away, she lets him. And the egret and the alligator and the snapping turtle all weep pollen and crumble into bones and roots when she commands them to follow him. They are not strong enough yet, not when she is alone, not when she is still-young in magic.
But oh! How those bones tremble when she stalks after him slowly through the swamp, how paws and claws try to dig their way free of the ground and drag themselves behind her. Her tailblade is making music as she drags it through the mud, and shears through branches and bushes with it. To the end of days, it whispers with every swing, with every cleaved-off head of a cardinal flower, you will see my following you.
She does not run. But Isolt is savoring the taste of him left on the wind, as she lifts her nose like a wolf and begins the chase that will last a lifetime.
i wonder what i look like
in your eyes
