miles below the surface of the dawn; eucharist

[caledonia]

there's a voice that pulls me stumbling through a symphony
and the less of it I need, the more I get

Caledonia does not often wander away from her home. Partially because she is simply not the kind to truly want to find herself in strange situations and partially because it was difficult to travel when you couldn’t see. It leaves her withdrawn and more content to trace the patterns that she has learned throughout Pangea—following the paths that she has known for so long. But today she walks a different path, her heart pounding in her thin chest and her wings fluffing uselessly at her sides.

Perhaps it was the dream she had last night—the one that left her breathless when she awoke. Perhaps it was knowing that her sister was off having the kind of grand adventures that she only dreamed about and then shoved away as far as possible, terrified of the implications of actually following through.

Perhaps it was simply that she was day dreaming and lost her way.

Regardless, she soon realizes that the hard of Pangea has begun to fade away and the ground beneath her has begun to soften. She feels the light brush of grass and startles but does not jump far away, too unsure about her surroundings to move quickly. She exhales, nostrils flaring as she reaches down to brush her nose against the vegetation and smiles when she finds flowers instead, the scent intoxicating. There was nothing like this in her home—nothing so lush, so beautiful—and her heart warms immediately.

Smiling to herself, she brings her head back up, milky eyes unseeing as she focuses instead on the foreign smells, the meadow unfolding before her in all of its glory. The wind picks up, ruffling the still upright brush of her mane and her white wings flare once more before folding over her back. She has no idea why she has been gifted such wonderful things to only be kept grounded, but she is sure there is a reason.

There is always a reason, she thinks.

At least, that’s what her father whispers to her before she falls asleep.

’til I'm swept up by the shape of all the centuries
like an echo in the chambers of my chest

@[eucharist]

[eucharist]

let me die on your altar, sweet death in agony for you.

They are opposites, he notices when he sees her startle at the feeling of the tall grasses tickling at her legs. They are perfect opposites and yet they are much alike – they both have wings and short manes ta hardly fluff from their necks. But he is bold and moves eagerly while she remains timid of her surroundings. He does not know what it means to be blind and so he assumes she is the kind of shy thing he appreciates – like the deer who skitter from him at home. Eucharist is confused as he reaches out with his mind to skim across hers, only to find darkness and sound. Lost. Flowers. Reason.

His wings ruffle and then settle as he tries to make sense of her thoughts but the ones around her are too loud to drown out. The boy gives a soft sort of baby snort and then he moves closer to her until he can hear her clearly. But she doesn’t look at him. At least, not at him, only through him. He tilts his dark head and meets her nose with his in a light bump.

“What are you doing?” he asks, face still smushed to hers. He blinks slowly and stares into the milk color of her eyes before lifting his head finally. She’s the color of the freckles across his shoulders, the ones his mother kisses as he drifts off to sleep, and he likes that about her. Eucharist doesn’t say this aloud, of course, but it does occur to him. “My name is Eucharist, but my sister calls me Charlie sometimes. What’s yours?”

He begins to circle her, sniffing at her wings or her back curiously. She doesn’t smell like the tropical flowers of Pangea but something muskier. Like Loess but with salt to it, he thinks. The boy comes to a stop in front of her again and continues to observe her quietly.

@[caledonia]