05-28-2021, 09:00 PM
it's a mystery to me
we have a greed with which we have agreed. you think you have to want more than you need; until you have it all you won't be free. and when you think more than you want, your thoughts begin to bleed.
The ground rolls underneath her as she enters the sweeping grasses of the plains. Wishbone only barely stops from falling, tripping over her feet and watching the blades of grass swing in time with her missteps and the unseated earth. As she regains her balance, the cloud-and-sky of her brother seems to appear from the plains. His smile is easy at first, and she doesn’t stop calling his name, even though she can see him. Desperation twists her stomach in knots, and she tries to pick up speed to reach Svedka as the earth rumbles beneath them again.
“Shit,” she hisses through her teeth, watching something drip from her brother’s nose. Although she is still on the other side of the field, Wishbone can spot the unnatural blackness oozing from his nose and ears, and soon it’s spreading. She moves as quickly as she can, but it isn’t very fast with how the earth is pitching and tumbling. “Fuck!” This time it’s a scream, a prayer on the starry ancestors, a burning desire to have something to help her reach Svedka before it’s too late. She wishes with everything in her that she could have inherited Warrick’s wings, if only for this exact moment.
It’s too late.
She’s too late.
It happens in slow motion as if the Devil himself had purposely stretched out these moments to take pleasure in the anguish. Wishbone is almost there when she watches the ground crumble around him, a predator hunting its prey across the wide field. She’s close enough to see him give up, to watch the fear shift to sadness, to know that more time will pass before she will see him again. Wishbone doesn’t have the optimism now (it will hit her later, and then it will fade once more, a tide continually pulled by the moon of their hearts), and her voice is heartbroken as she yells, “Svedka!”
He slips into the crack faster than she’s expecting, and as soon as his head disappears into the darkness, the earth’s raucous movements stop. It gives Wishbone enough time to run the rest of the way to where he was, her heart a wild fluttering bird in her chest, but by the time she’s reached him, the earth has sealed itself. There is nothing to show for its disturbances except a jagged wide section of upturned soil and the tall grass shoved aside.
She keeps repeating the word “No” until it sounds distorted in her mouth. Wishbone’s mind moves just as quickly as her heart, and she’s dragging a wide, flat piece of some ancient thing’s sternum before she can give it much thought. The bone digs into the soil and pulls up only more, but she doesn’t stop until there’s a horse-sized hole in the ground. Her face is a mess of tears and dirt and sweat, dark mane clinging to her long neck, evidence of the effort she puts into bringing Svedka back.
It’s too late.
She’s too late.
And finally, with the darkness already taking its full effect and the sounds of monsters beginning to rustle in the undergrowth of the jungles, Wishbone crumples into the hole she’s dug and lets her tears water the earth.
“Shit,” she hisses through her teeth, watching something drip from her brother’s nose. Although she is still on the other side of the field, Wishbone can spot the unnatural blackness oozing from his nose and ears, and soon it’s spreading. She moves as quickly as she can, but it isn’t very fast with how the earth is pitching and tumbling. “Fuck!” This time it’s a scream, a prayer on the starry ancestors, a burning desire to have something to help her reach Svedka before it’s too late. She wishes with everything in her that she could have inherited Warrick’s wings, if only for this exact moment.
It’s too late.
She’s too late.
It happens in slow motion as if the Devil himself had purposely stretched out these moments to take pleasure in the anguish. Wishbone is almost there when she watches the ground crumble around him, a predator hunting its prey across the wide field. She’s close enough to see him give up, to watch the fear shift to sadness, to know that more time will pass before she will see him again. Wishbone doesn’t have the optimism now (it will hit her later, and then it will fade once more, a tide continually pulled by the moon of their hearts), and her voice is heartbroken as she yells, “Svedka!”
He slips into the crack faster than she’s expecting, and as soon as his head disappears into the darkness, the earth’s raucous movements stop. It gives Wishbone enough time to run the rest of the way to where he was, her heart a wild fluttering bird in her chest, but by the time she’s reached him, the earth has sealed itself. There is nothing to show for its disturbances except a jagged wide section of upturned soil and the tall grass shoved aside.
She keeps repeating the word “No” until it sounds distorted in her mouth. Wishbone’s mind moves just as quickly as her heart, and she’s dragging a wide, flat piece of some ancient thing’s sternum before she can give it much thought. The bone digs into the soil and pulls up only more, but she doesn’t stop until there’s a horse-sized hole in the ground. Her face is a mess of tears and dirt and sweat, dark mane clinging to her long neck, evidence of the effort she puts into bringing Svedka back.
It’s too late.
She’s too late.
And finally, with the darkness already taking its full effect and the sounds of monsters beginning to rustle in the undergrowth of the jungles, Wishbone crumples into the hole she’s dug and lets her tears water the earth.
@[Svedka]