09-01-2016, 04:29 PM
She is not supposed to be one; she is two, and he is three.
But she cannot smell them, cannot sense them in that way that only those who share the same house of flesh can sense one another - nearby, always, constant.
Stygian, is the darkness in which they began.
Womb-black and safe, forever three and together.
Which they are not now;
(Forever, the finality of it; like one - Witching, she does not know that three does not have the time that they do. Forever, it seems so final, so endless, but not for brother - he will taste the grave long before they do, and neither of them knows it.)
The ashes of burnt up hope stir in her; breezes toy gaily with the pale froth of her hair, making the strands twist and snap together against her face and neck. But back to the pile of dead hope in her, the same breezes bear smells that are familiar, that dredge up space and forever and galaxies of togetherness. Something explodes in her like a supernova, hot and bright, and her dark cinnamon eyes blaze back to life - knowing, expectant. She hears the hoofsteps moments before the croak of One’s voice reaches her; relief breaks like dawn across her silver-bay face and with it, the smallest crook of her lips in a smile. “Lost,” she responds, as Witching leans in and they touch, two splinters of the a greater chunk of driftwood. All that is missing is Three - Reap, brother, last.
Regretfully, she pulls her face back from her sister’s side and gives a forlorn shake of her head - no, she hasn’t seen him, hasn’t smelled him, he is lost like she was - like they were, but the hope is reborn in her, from ash and phoenix-fire and star-stuff. If Witching has come back, then Reap shall as well. That is how they are to trust it to be, that how strong their belief in the gravitational pull of their threesome is for them. One and Two, and only Three is still missing…
Three!
The grass shivers at his coming; he is strong and fast, like a whirlwind of force that begs to be reckoned with and Two’s face splits into a grin, because now - now, the circle is comple. One. Two. Three. OneTwoThree. He smells familiar - like family, because he is, but also different somehow, that has Gravely fussing over him dutifully, poking her nose into the tangles of mane about his neck, sliding her lips down the length of his spine - he smells, like death, like mother and she rears her head back to regard him anew. She knows he has been among the beach, that terrible shore, and not the ash and timber of their birthplace.
“Too long,” she murmurs, a susurrus of being - nearly wraithlike, and just as willowy compared to his brawny self. Both of them - One and Three, are out of breath and she cannot exhale fast enough, thinking she might float away and up, up, up into the stars! Because they are there now, they are OneTwoThree and Two is not terribly alone - terribly bereft, any more. She can taste happiness like a cloud on her tongue, pale and airy, and it swells along her throat and pushes deep down into her belly until it shakes a laugh out of her.
“Brother, Sister...” she sighs, pleasantly stupefied by their return to her.
She never wants them to part again; jealousy is a hot snake that twists her gut in all manner of violence - they will not leave her, not now, not ever. It is a thing that she promises to herself, secretly and softly, as she reaches out to touch Reap’s nose with hers’.
But she cannot smell them, cannot sense them in that way that only those who share the same house of flesh can sense one another - nearby, always, constant.
Stygian, is the darkness in which they began.
Womb-black and safe, forever three and together.
Which they are not now;
(Forever, the finality of it; like one - Witching, she does not know that three does not have the time that they do. Forever, it seems so final, so endless, but not for brother - he will taste the grave long before they do, and neither of them knows it.)
The ashes of burnt up hope stir in her; breezes toy gaily with the pale froth of her hair, making the strands twist and snap together against her face and neck. But back to the pile of dead hope in her, the same breezes bear smells that are familiar, that dredge up space and forever and galaxies of togetherness. Something explodes in her like a supernova, hot and bright, and her dark cinnamon eyes blaze back to life - knowing, expectant. She hears the hoofsteps moments before the croak of One’s voice reaches her; relief breaks like dawn across her silver-bay face and with it, the smallest crook of her lips in a smile. “Lost,” she responds, as Witching leans in and they touch, two splinters of the a greater chunk of driftwood. All that is missing is Three - Reap, brother, last.
Regretfully, she pulls her face back from her sister’s side and gives a forlorn shake of her head - no, she hasn’t seen him, hasn’t smelled him, he is lost like she was - like they were, but the hope is reborn in her, from ash and phoenix-fire and star-stuff. If Witching has come back, then Reap shall as well. That is how they are to trust it to be, that how strong their belief in the gravitational pull of their threesome is for them. One and Two, and only Three is still missing…
Three!
The grass shivers at his coming; he is strong and fast, like a whirlwind of force that begs to be reckoned with and Two’s face splits into a grin, because now - now, the circle is comple. One. Two. Three. OneTwoThree. He smells familiar - like family, because he is, but also different somehow, that has Gravely fussing over him dutifully, poking her nose into the tangles of mane about his neck, sliding her lips down the length of his spine - he smells, like death, like mother and she rears her head back to regard him anew. She knows he has been among the beach, that terrible shore, and not the ash and timber of their birthplace.
“Too long,” she murmurs, a susurrus of being - nearly wraithlike, and just as willowy compared to his brawny self. Both of them - One and Three, are out of breath and she cannot exhale fast enough, thinking she might float away and up, up, up into the stars! Because they are there now, they are OneTwoThree and Two is not terribly alone - terribly bereft, any more. She can taste happiness like a cloud on her tongue, pale and airy, and it swells along her throat and pushes deep down into her belly until it shakes a laugh out of her.
“Brother, Sister...” she sighs, pleasantly stupefied by their return to her.
She never wants them to part again; jealousy is a hot snake that twists her gut in all manner of violence - they will not leave her, not now, not ever. It is a thing that she promises to herself, secretly and softly, as she reaches out to touch Reap’s nose with hers’.