in my heart a garden grows
I did not know that this is what I have been searching for. I did not know that there could be so much sweetness in life. I did not know that I could dance in a fairy garden and sow seeds instead of rot.
I did not know —
but my sister has showed me the way.
I did not know —
but my sister has showed me the way.
If there was ever a world in which Isolt belonged, it was this: the forest of night shade her sister presses against her lips and begs her to eat, and eat, and eat. And now she finds that those leaves settled in her belly between the magic and the rage like there has always been a place there waiting just for them. Every part of her feels alive when they sink to the bottom of her like their poison is only seeds, and she the garden soil for them to sprout, and root, and bloom in.
And oh, Isolt has never wished to be a garden for anything more than she wishes to be it now for the nightshade.
One day she will be that garden, and she knows she will be more lovely, and more terrible a garden than any others before her. The feel of the nightshade still tingling on her lips is promise enough of that, and the laughter of the fairies the proof of it.
But it is the kiss of her sister that has her dancing free of the fairy eyes of the mountain rams, and blinking up at the midnight sky as if for the first time.
She can feel her flower-petal heart trembling, and her ivy-wrapped lungs gasping in the crisp night air. And when her twin scrapes her teeth down the uneven bark of a tree she swears that she can taste the pine of it, and the needles, and the sap filling her teeth. It ferments on her tongue like the honey-wine of the earth. And Isolt is drinking it down with the same hunger by which she ate of the leaves.
She feels more like a humming bird than a fox then, as she flits to her sister's side and looks down her throat like she is looking into the heart of a flower. This time Isolt does not try to tell her that she can see those constellations that all choking her, or ask her it they hurt (a hummingbird does not think to ask the flower if the nectar is for her or for another.)
She only takes a lock of Danaë’s mane between her teeth, and she pulls —
and she pulls —
and she does not stop until they are swimming together in the galaxies she has freed.
@danaë
"wilting // blooming"
