love is the red the rose on your coffin door, what's life like bleeding on the floor?
I picture them now, where they had been hours earlier; greedily feasting on unnatural things, sitting upon thrones of splintered bone and the corpses that littered the deepest, darkest parts of the meadow. I was some sort of guard, I was sure that is what they had for me. To be the eyes that watched, the ears that heard but the tongue that did not speak. For I had seen the horrors that my mothers inflicted on the innocent, the way the peachy flesh stunk when the sun had rotten it down to the very wick of their body. That is not such thing for a child to see, but yet, I am no simple child.
The months that had shifted, had given me, long, willowy legs, dashed with feathers. My mane and tail were thorn-ridden and knotted, constant hiding in the gorse, constant movement in the shadows, has left me a mess. There is a sheen beneath the dank black coat of mine, an ebony gloss that I'm sure Nykeln had once had, before she had been bleached by crimson blood.
'Hello.' I greet him, like I had seen others do from the outskirts of my home. Being the eyes and the ears, for some sinful cause, you become engrossed in the workings of the meadow, and I had seen trysts and fights, lovers and enemies, they were all the same when they had a secret audience. The flammable steed offers more than just a Hello. He did not carry on his walk through and past me, instead he has stopped and he speaks, to me no less. For a moment I am stunned into silence. Downey ears fluttering against the breeze atop my head.
'I dont wander. My mothers are here.' I say, there is no denying that I am born of some sinful creation, as unnatural as the magic that birthed me. 'They are everywhere.' Because they are, I can feel the cold skin of Chantale, the frenetic heart of Nykeln. They watch, and they wait. for me to lure someone in, with my innocent silver gaze, my young, unburdened form. This time, this time I do not, I simply stare up at the grey steed, curious grey eyes enchanted by the way the flame trickles like liquid fire.
They love strangers. They love the way the heart beats, the way their blood...' I stop, silencing my lips by biting my tongue. I dare not say much more. The sins that go on beyond the trees, the carnal blood lust, the flesh-eating monstrosities, they were not for the faint of heart and certainly not for some stranger who actually gave me the time of day. I drop my head a little, lowering my muzzle to the most ground, my lips touch the earth, pick at the shoots of leaves and twigs. Autumn's dying reign making room for the cold, harsh winter that was Jack Frost's rule.
'The flames. They are beautiful.' The same way that the blood that stains my mother's coat, is a masterpiece, the same way that my undead grey mother, rots and shifts, heart unbeating, cold skin fragile like paper, is a glory all unnamed. I shift again, liquid shadow, melting against the spires of light, closer to the steed, ever curious. 'I'm Vaermina.' I pause, licking my dry lips, wetting them to entice his name to my tongue, swallowing it like the sweet scent of blood, the curious taste of flesh that I often smell upon both mothers and the home that I call. 'Kushiel. Kushiel.'
v a e r m i n a
chantale x nykeln