isolt.Only the feel of my sister's blade tap, tap, tapping out a song against my hip can silence the snarl rising in my throat. Only the flowers she blooms in place of violence can make me lift my horn from the throat of a man I want to kill. The promise I see there in her eyes is the only thing that has ever convinced me to be soft when all the world is making me sharp, sharp, sharp.
There is blood dripping from her horn to her brow.She can feel it pooling there above her eye, a reminder of the eye she nearly took from him. It limns her eyelashes like red mascara, curls down the corner of her eye in the tract of a bloody tear. When she blinks, she sees red —
When she blinks, she sees the gore of a man who knows nothing of the hunger or the sorrow of unicorns, running in rivers across the stone floor —
When she blinks, Isolt sees the marrow of this world, she sees soldiers piled at the edges of a battlefield in place of the party goers. She sees the blood glimmering against their skulls, the arrows pierced into their sides, their empty eyes staring through her. Somewhere the first crow is gorging itself on those very eyes, plucking them out to make room for the daisies to grow in their place. And a unicorn walks through them with a smile curling like a scythe across her lips.
Isolt turns to follow her sister into the desert, and she does not see those mortals watching her like dogs watching two wolves walk amongst them (a god does not worry itself over the concerns of the sinners of its world.) She sees only the graveyard they would fill, only the bodies after the war. And to each of them she whispers like the true-god of death calling to its army of the dead, come.
She curls her tail around her sister's like a knot, tucks her shoulder to her hip. And with that pollen spore blooming in their chests, and all the coyotes in her heart slaking their thirst on stallion’s blood still dripping from her horn, she follows Danaë into that promise of tomorrow.
i wonder what i look like
in your eyes
