widows, ghosts and loves sit and sing
in the dark, arched marrow of me
in the dark, arched marrow of me
S
lowly, not in moments but in days, scripture is piling up on the grimoire pages of her. Not every memory, curled up like ink pooling in shadows behind her gaze, carries with a name, a smell, or a heartbeat song. Some are nothing more than whippoorwills in a breeze, both a tower and a bowed back all at once. Some memories, like the shadow of Aspara and her wolf, are something more.Danaë blinks as they disappear into the star-corpses and wishes caught.
For a moment it feels like she’s slipped outside her own skin and into the churning belly of the monster waiting inside Isolt. Her heart remembers how to leap into the thrill of a hunt that has unfurled as suddenly as a spring flower (one day it is there with no memory of the unfolding). Her hooves remember the ache of miles, and miles, of exhaustion. The flutter in her lungs has nothing to do with dreaming, or the wonder of flowers, or the thrill of watching a fledgling fall from a nest and discovering that it suddenly belongs to her instead of the forest. And the way she leans her neck forward below her sister’s, into that lingering whisper of winter and sunflower, is not a submission but a challenge.
It feels so good, so terribly good, to be a thing outside a unicorn who can only grow a garden in a corpse of the earth. There is something freeing in feeling hunger in place of sorrow, wrath in place of lament.
But like all things, all memories that ebb and flow in inkblots behind her eyes, she cannot keep the feeling. Her bloody gaze fades to the soft-red of a spring rose yet unframed by thorns. The top of her neck brushes her sister’s throat like a leaf against a leaf instead of like a wolf against its alpha. Blade brushes blade, an assurance that some days they can sing in something outside death.
Her gaze follows the ghost of Aspara and her wolf.
Another puddle of ink pools behind her eyes when she leans her weight against Isolt and lets the mirrors crumble down to dust around them. And another, and another, and another until the black dots of ink turn themselves in a chasm instead of a grimoire.
{ @Isolt @Aspara"speaks" notes: <3
