Nevermind how she got here. The darkness, the night, the spiraling tendrils of shadow’s smile… nevermind how it happened, how she ran and cried in the following days, how she fled from the void and fell into abyss. Fear was a demon, an entity given autonomy by some cruel trick of fate, and the girl and her brother were left to face it alone. Alone - for the first time, she knew what that meant, the cold, metal word that Hototo had cast, the harsh winter whisper of a soul cast into eternity. They had one another, but it wasn’t enough, not without the smell of oak and the song of bird. Death, death and decay, that was all they had; the air hung rank with a macabre leer, and the girl could never run far enough to escape the hungry grin, the empty eyes. They haunted her dreams, and she could not sleep; they poisoned her mind, and food tasted stale.
Her brother would purr, and howl, and coax, but the girl grew wasted as the season waned. In the days that passed they felt eternity float by, and the world spun lofty spirals, the dim edge of light that marked false day taunting their senses and clouding their minds. On thin limbs they wandered, ever afraid; and one by one their havens were taken, devoured by darkness- or perhaps their own paranoia. The world was lost to the enemy’s grip, and Tandavi’s terror was a net on her back, a constant companion she could never escape. In the night she would whimper while Natraj stood watch; in the day he would drowse on the ridge of her spine, uncomfortable and exhausted, the anchor to her soul. They came to fear when the darkness fell, to curl in the safety of barrow or bush - don’t let it find us, don’t let it find us, a mantra to gods who’d forsaken this land.
They came here on the wind, pushed forward by the promise of safety, freedom and light from the wound of the Heart. The have traveled south at a varied trajectory; for the Throat had been a safe place once, and the fire of the Heart promised defense against the dark. Brittle grass cracks beneath the girl’s tender hooves, the dank scent of forest stained by a sinking sensation of fear. A loose branch cracks and the girl shies, body lurching sideways in a tight flurry of tension; from her back a protest is heard as Natraj sinks in claws to maintain his seat. "Sorry," she mutters, but her voice isn’t here; it’s a dark echo of her distracted mind, a thing left behind by her fast moving eyes. She doesn’t like the forest, as sparse as it is; but the sun will soon set and they have found no place to sleep, and the girl is loath to be caught beneath the open sky.
Natraj prods gently from his place on her spine, a question unasked in his warm golden eyes. Are we going to look? the boy demands- "They’ll find us,” she snaps, voice sharper than she feels. In truth she is doubtful that anyone will come, that their mother will appear and sweep them away; but she knows that Natraj is clinging to the last strand of hope, that he holds it close and secret, weaves it as a bandage to keep his walls from tumbling down. The girl breathes deeply, not taking time to note the addition of a nostalgic aroma to the scent of the woods. Black eyes closed, she shudders her fear, and repeats the words silently against the hard pulse of terror. She makes herself believe it, for his sake and her own; for without it he would shatter, and without him she would die. They’ll find us. They’ll find us. They’ll find us.
"They’ll find us."
They do not see the forest shift, but they find the result in a damp, sleepy haze, their limbs hanging weary and the minds burning mad. The shelter is wrong, it defies nature’s laws, and the pair nearly misses it in their need to deny all that whispers abnormal. It’s the crackle of footsteps that catches in Natraj’s elephantine ears, and the realization that she smelled it before, smelled it on the wind before she knew what it was. Familiar and strange, the aroma’s a slap, a teasing tendril of bright, flame-ridden hope. Fire granted oxygen, it surges hot within her; and the girl doesn’t think, doesn’t fear, doesn’t care, because she has to be right. The world is not so cruel. She knows the scent, and it’s safe, and it’s here, and she stumbles into the light of the flame, drawn as a moth to the safety and warmth.
A sight she must be, wraith-like and bedraggled, with scrapes on her shins, the braided mane tangled. Injuries she does not know she has litter the hide of the yearling girl, but more than that is the dark in her eyes, the black haunted light in her black, haunted gaze. She stares at the stallion and her heart does not burst, does not beat; she sees him and is broken, a wild thing found at last.
It is Natraj who leaps to the ground, closing the distance in a hot, frenzied dash. He yelps at the stallion, expressing his joy; tails wave with renewed force, faith rewarded with the angel’s descent. The boy is a child, his bravery gone, and the kitsune weeps as he clings to Lace’s leg with a passionate zeal, while his sister stands still, a statue of copper in the flickering flame.
@[Lace]
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
