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WE ARE ALL ILLUMINATED
Time waits for no one
Time waits for no one
Beneath the bleak expanse of cinereal skies, the brine crashes ivory froth against the beige grains of the shore— surrounding dabs of rock swathed in murkier than normal attire, still damp from the springtide deluge, humid oxygen coating most equine's flesh sweaty with the light of the early dawn, the odor of salt ravished with the howl of the wind off the coast. But if one took the time to flesh out the fragrance of the sea, one would know it is keen, uncluttered, or putrid with seaweed washed ashore— it does not hold a element of metal, copper, and yet it swirls with the gusts upon the breeze; the loathsome aroma of spilt cruor. If one were to not simply bypass the coastline, indeed, they would surely take notice of the cardinal stains among the soil, droplets gathering in volume, the hope of ravenous beasts as a prowling wolf for the sinew of a lamb's meat, a painless feast without the aid of a pack to slaughter its harvest.
A being drags themselves along the once pristine sands, starry breast smeared with the very same cruor, lacerations rosy with irritability at the ire of the wind, violet spheres rimmed in scarlet, swollen and wet with tears, opaque lines drawn as cracks and crevices down her cheeks where the drops had scattered— blown with the wind, frame trembling, quivering as a leaf. The muscles beneath her flesh convulse between intervals, as spasms of misery and the strain of standing converge as one upon her.
Something is soaked into her sinew on her port side, sticky and saturated, pooling down her fiercely shaking pillar, vermilion and vibrant in hue— it is her own life's liquor, a chunk of perished corpuscles hanging limp as a ragdoll, leaving raw tendon in its wake.
The Nightingale has failed, blundered and miscarried, defeated, having fallen flat beneath the weight of ambitions and aspirations, she has failed, she has failed the Plaguebearer with his starved craving for dominance, failed the Empress with her ascendancies to the throne. She had faltered in her pledge, her vow, her assurances and betrothal, she has fractured, crumpled and broken her promise.
Coming to a swath of kelp, wrapped snug about a beaming, vivid apricot egg, gilded and luminous as the Sun in summer she pauses, enervated, drained and gone stale, wasted time and worn days, consumed in the burden of the world, nausea writhing up within her throat as bile, a sudden rush of disbelief and deliriousness washing up inside her cranium, sweeping across her lithe bodice, the wailing flurries catching cascades of mane in its wake— savage and passionate, a irate lover's hands, and she teeters recklessly, a spiteful lashing of a hymn groveling within her mind.
They won't love you now, it whispers, laborious and serpentine. They do not love derelict children with meager downfalls.
A meek response, forbearing and subdued, yielding protests against the caw of the Voice. Liar, she cries, liar, liar, liar, and a cackle thrums in her harks, harsh as the winter air is bitter.
You are, Oathbreaker.
And there, beside the roar of the brine, she topples, the second time this morn— shattering, wilting as a flower without water, weary and tiring and infuriated, so, so irate at herself, for she has lost, she has lost and they won't love her anymore, they won't love her anymore, a dejected helplessness rising as the tide within her veins, a dry sob bursting from her lungs, a quake resounding throughout her pilant frame, followed by another, and another, and another, the Earth seeming eerily hushed besides the splintering of her glass heart.
She is forsaken, truly, desolate and widowed, there is no mother to rock the babe within her arms— there could have been, mourns the Voice now, crepuscule and grim, if you hadn't of murdered her, there could have been, and as she spills her sorrows among the kelp, the seaweed, the divine blessed egg fractures, a rift growing within its illuminated surface, as if it mimics the severing of her heart, and there, before her quivering nostrils plunges the minuscule torso of a cub, a mewl escaping its blind face, puny, pilous paws landing upon her maw, shivering in the drab light, tangerine and onyx and cream— and among the rapid pulse of her mangled heart, a bond ties, a noose holds. This is her soul, her dæmon, and a bubbling laugh escapes her lungs.
Except it isn't really a laugh.
It's more like a sob, mixed with a laugh.
Just a little.
A brittle hymn, thick, weaves lyrics from her maw, tattered spiderwebs, long forgotten tongues. "Rhawon," she says, because she knows immediately with the chastity that empties her mind from his cranium, knows it is a he and he is hers, and the babe chuffs against her sinew. He'll perish, too, the Voice says, because she is damned, and she merits a watery whimper. "Yes," comes the croak of a lyric.
They may both relinquish life, this day, among the reaping of her own claret.
I tried, murmurs her hazy thoughts, lightheaded, and startlingly dizzy. Was the sky always so brilliant?
I tried....
@[Oxy] @[Delinne]
thanks tamme
Cause she's a Cruel Mistress
And a bargain must be made
ღ
