The world was black and white, void of winter's pale palette of colors, save for the eery luminescent glow of various assortments of life: toadstools, pebbles, the ragged bark of wizened old trees; but all marking the trail to different realms of Helovia. She was not yet comfortable with the everlasting darkness and certainly never would be, as she was a creature fashioned from sunlight and scorched desert sand, but she was becoming accustomed to maneuvering through the shadow world, following the amethyst glimmer of Itzal's venomous eyes through the haze of glowing trees. She had even come so far as to appreciate the exotic, otherworldly beauty of this desolate world deprived of the sun's nourishing rays.
But as she had learned many times over, beautiful things were not to be trusted; beautiful things were treacherous.
Yseulte perhaps most of all.
The world smelled of wet wood, earth, and a storm that had shaken the earth to it's roots earlier that day. The sweet cold scent settled in every nook and cranny, seeping into the pores of the Threshold and numbing Yseulte's lips. Snowflakes and icicles clung like tiny glass marbles to naked limbs, sparkling with wild abandon in the bright, encompassing glow of tree bark and vines. With a porcelain tap the translucent droplets scattered beneath her warm, rosewood breath as she passed by, moving at a brisk pace to keep the blood flowing warm and smooth through her veins and to keep her crippled leg from stiffening in the cold.
She might have missed the wanderer, were it not for the deep throated snarl of Itzal, who veered off the path into the darkness. She hesitated briefly, before picking her way after him, cautious and silent, every step a whispered hush on the moist earth. A metallic tang lingered in the air, which had a strange, stormy scent. The sharp, unmistakable taste of blood curled in her nostrils in strong waves, making her snort and scour the earth for precious ruby droplets, but it was useless—too dark, too blind.
She saw the creatures minutes later, a weary, small frame struggling to its paws, half cat, half bird. Griffin, her mind registered numbly. The griffin's companion lay sprawled in the snow, a lithe mare in shades of ebony and silver. The mare was hardly more than a wild array of blood, hair, and the strange, lingering scent of electricity. Yseulte did not make her presence known immediately, even when her eyes traveled the length of the thick rivulets of blood streaking the mares flanks, neck, and shoulders.
She considered leaving them to die, as her father would.
Itzal seemed to think the same; he stood silently by her side, his cold gaze fixed on the young griffin with distaste, and then flickered to glistening blood, his eyes glittering with a malevolent hunger. The pale tiger was thinner than he ought to be—they both were. Such nourishment would strengthen him, she knew, and yet, the thought of it sickened and disgusted her. And the two strangers would surely die, if she chose to abandon them. If hypothermia did not take the injured mare, the wolves and other horrors of the forest would. Survival of the fittest, Zjarri would say. Every man for himself. And for a very long time, she had believed him.
But for as much as her fair face resembled his, she was not her father, and she could not abandon a sister to die alone.
"Get up," she commanded coldly, striding from the cover of the woods to her side, ignoring the griffin for the time being. Itzal remained behind, crouched in the shadows; watching, waiting. "You must get up," she repeated, her voice no less harsh than before. She had no skills in the art of healing; her only hope was to keep the injured mare talking and moving long enough to reach the Edge where Torasin—
No, she had abandoned the Edge. And Torasin was dead.
A numb, hollow feeling spread through her limbs. Despair. Sighing softly, Yseulte lowered her body and gently pressed to the mare's feverish sides. The stranger's body, despite being severely injured, was lithe and powerful—the body of a warrior, surely. Her skin felt like ice against the warmth of Yseulte's. "I will stay with you." Until you die. It was the only comfort Yseulte could promise. She was not a healer, and nor could she hope to find one in time in this eternal darkness; there was no sense stumbling blindly through the Threshold. The mare's best chance was to remain where she was, but even then... After the mare's death, Yseulte must be gone, swiftly.
The wolves were probably already on their way.
"Tell me your name, sister," she said more kindly, wondering if she should ease the mare's passing herself. It would not take much—no more than a single blow of Yseulte's pearl horn easing gently between her ribs to the heart, and the mare would be at peace. She caught a glimpse of Itzal's hungered gaze in the shadows and knew in that moment that she did not have the strength, however kindly it might be meant; not when there was a glimmer of hope still to be had.
Instead, she pressed her cheek gently against the mare's, and waited for the inevitable. |
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