She glows. Her heavy strands of black hair slide /
☼
like serpents over somber, blood-red plush.
Two errant comets upon their separate trajectories, either of Solis’ chosen map their way across the desert with separate agendas, chasing the wayward nothingness that the desert offers. A smatter of budding starlight guides the painted woman, her dark hair clinging to the drying sheen of sweat upon her nape. It was routine, by now, to run her limbs ragged—to thrash her silvery horn into the shadow, to beat back the intangible darkness with the fearsomeness of quivering limbs.
She has beaten greater threats than the irrepressible, crushing nothingness; that which speaks to her in haunting tongues when clouds blot out the moon, leaving nothing but the musk of a webby, sandy tomb to flood her nostrils—
For her, the midnight stretch of desert is a reprieve from the unbidden memories that surge to her in tides, and the endless invocation of songs she no longer wishes to sing.
(How can she, really, when the words are buried deep within? Black nails rake down the walls that divide her selves in two, cleaving apart an elusive identity that, day by day, draws teasingly nearer to her, only to part like the lapping ocean tide.
She is a creature controlled by the moon, and her wildly scattered pieces dangle like lures upon the cratered light’s crescent. She could take them by force, if she was yet brave enough to step back into the dark.)
The copse of the oasis welcomed her like a friend, the gurgling falls that fringed the rare pool of water humming its idle greeting. The rest of the desert remained in its perpetuating, eerie stillness, but the rare vitality of Solis’ gift is enough to drown her thoughts and to sweep the sweat from her spine. Having already regained her breath, the dappled mare knew there was nothing left to do but wait; to turn her hoary eyes skyward and glare upon the encroaching, abysmal darkness, to dare it too press too near.
Some nights, it did.
Others, her sparking embers were enough to keep it at bay.
Such was the war she waged since rousing from the catacombs, desert bound until she unearthed the courage to visit the walls of the Day Court. Even the dun-hued familiarity of home and hearth was crushing, suffocating her from miles away.
No, walls wouldn’t do—not now. Not when she, freshly woken from her tomb, was still something of a wild thing.
(And split apart, cursed to wonder and to wander; to chew upon the lie she’d been fed and to spit it out, bloody mouthed, when the taste turned sour.
A dream? A lie? Or another world entirely?)
She had no way of knowing where her sleeping soul had wandered. For now, in this instant of reality, she knew only the gritty bed of sediment upon which her dappled body lay. Hidden within the shadow of a looming fig tree and embraced by the pointed thimbles of thin, raggedy bushes, Hälla fixed her moony eyes upon the undulating saucer of the water.
Like a sandcat, she waited. She dwelled.
It was not the night that came to face her, though—but a face. A winged man gilt in sunshine, a strange juxtaposition within the cover of night, as though she’d expected his brightness to melt beneath the shadow. She is distant enough to watch idly as he dips himself into the water, the stoicism of her countenance betraying no secrets to the starlight.
She watches. Prepared to be noticed, and yet just as keen to linger in the preservation of her healing solitude.
But the Gods would have it another way as they locked eyes. Her chin lifted with equal pride, the silvery glint of her eyes disregarding any abashment at being found. No tension feathered her jaw, only a mulling rumination of what was to follow—she lingered in unmoving silence, her leonine tail brushing the sand beside her; thoughtful.
I didn’t expect company.
Her lip twitched. “The only water for miles, and you did not expect company?” She tsked softly, her dry amusement condemning the pride that flickered in his eyes. "I'm not here for you."
Still, there was something familiar about him, another misplaced memory. She gave it little consideration.
“But by all means,” her copper muzzle gestured to the rippling pool in which he'd bathed, her expression cool. “Continue.”
