widows, ghosts and loves sit and sing
in the dark, arched marrow of me
in the dark, arched marrow of me
I
solt, which each perfect steps she takes in the dead world, is making music. It is the song of the aftermath of war. There are notes of loss in the chime of bone on glass. Hope, broken and dead, hangs on the echo of hoof and star and shadow. Each sound, each ring, each clamor of bone and glass, is lovelier than the last. Her sister, her unicorn, her soul, makes music that turns into biblical sonnets that only she would be able to make.
Isolt makes music. Danaë dances as she follows the directions of the notes and the bellowing demands of the thunder left in the wake of them. Each of her steps is light as a fox hunting a hare as it outruns the hounds of hunters. Her horn is the spiraling red-light of the north-star as it clings to that bloody hour between dawn and darkness. The bones in her legs are nothing more than roots by which a petals blooms. She is the paper on which the notes makes themselves immortal.
Danaë is, as she dances to the music she cannot make, the garden that she'll never be able to grow. But the knowing does not make her steps any less sweet, or the bitterness in her bloody eyes less fermented. The tragic certainty of it only makes her smile in the graveyard of stars, like it's a garden she's running through instead of broken and shattered fire-bones.
And she feels the teeth, like the bone keys of the piano in the entryway, pressing against her shoulder before she knows to look at anything but the dark sky. She wonders, before she turns, what steps she is supposed to take to this note of flesh and bone and bone. Is she to dance, or stumble, or stutter through the notes of her own song she does not know how to sing?
Is she to carve the music into the star-bones? Is she to shatter?
Is she---
The unicorn, the dead one with her pale hair and her sunflower bones, sends her thoughts tumbling like stones. Dead things do not belong to the sunflowers and the wheatgrass, she thinks with a kiss to her sister's cheek, they belong to us.
All the dead unicorns belong to them as much as the foxes, the hares, and the wolves too. A rose blooms out of the glass-star-bones as she pushes closer to the unicorn who does not know that she belongs to the dirt and not the mirrors. How does she not know? and with the thought the dancer drapes her throat across the maker-of-the-graveyard-music.
She smiles in the same way she does as she paints bloody kisses across the bone brows and the daisy eyes. “I would have given you dahlias and lavender.” And she when blinks, long and slow as a dying thing, the look in her eyes is full of music and blood-red magic.
{ @Isolt @Aspara"speaks" notes: <3
