Trust a witch (GLASSHEART)

[Sunday]

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Sunday makes her way from the meadow and her pleasant conversation to the Forest, a land she hasn't visited before. It's not unheard of - Sunday, while being a social creature, has been too long away from Beqanna. While much changed, much remained the same. She abandons her long line of flower blossoming in the meadow and instead stops to smell each and every flower or bloom in the Forest. She loves the way the creeper vines fall just so - this part of the forest reminds her of her home in the Amazons. She lets a loaded sigh pass her lips at the memory of the kingdom that now probably resided under water.

But Sunday, forever an optimist, reminds herself that all change leads to greater things. While she misses the sisterhood and the quiet calm of the jungle she knows it was probably for a greater good. Who is she, but an ant, to say it was not?

The forest's calm quiet gives way to a small clearing and she pauses here, noting another horse just at the edge of the clearing. She lets out a low, soft noise of hello to introduce herself. Sunday is always a social being.

"Hello there!" she greets, her smile wide. "I'm Sunday, who are you?"

SUNDAY

never put your faith in a prince. when you require a miracle, trust in a witch

[Glassheart]

Sometimes their thoughts become so entangled that she can’t tell who begins and ends where.

For months now, she could tell that things had been wrong. What had started as a feeling, a presence, it grew - and it grew, and it grew, and it grew. When she closed her eyes the images played out like motion pictures on the backs of her eyelids. When she dreamed, she dreamed of them. She saw gold and silver in every reflection of every surface. The memories were a parasite; they consumed her.

It wasn’t a feeling, or a presence anymore.
It was an intruder.

Today, Glassheart is lingering at the meadows border, embraced by a small clearing that shields her from omens like rivers, and hazels, and shorelines. She can’t decide what it is that she wants - if she should return to the meadow and embrace the memories, or stay here where it’s quiet. To embrace them might mean saying goodbye to everything else. And to turn them away? To turn away from them might mean to do nothing important in life.

It’s easy to forget yourself in the face of something that pretends to be better.

“I’m Sunday, who are you?”
A stranger asks from her peripheral.

(I have no name.)
(I am Glassheart.)
(I have no name.)

The thoughts in her head are discordant and fractured. She blinks twice in an effort to stifle them, and when that fails she turns to greet the stranger in the clearing.

“I have no name,” she says, because this time she has lost.

@Sunday

[Sunday]

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When the mare speaks Sunday finds herself assaulted with a cacophony of feelings and emotions. Pain, thick and poignant as the grass beneath her hooves, stabs Sunday in the gut. Then comes confusion, sadness, hurt, every thesaurus of painful thoughts that could vacillate through the mind in a matter of seconds. The peaceful clearing is suddenly a haven and a prison, a quiet place to escape and be stuck with your own emotions. Sunday almost reels at the feeling.

The mare's aura is just as shifty. One moment it is a beautiful hue, then the colors tilt and shift with such violence that it leaves Sunday unnerved. Damn her empathy, damn her ability to feel, she is riding the roller coaster with this mare.

Most would probably leave, she realizes. Other empaths would be overwhelmed by the sheer volume and depth of the emotion that roils through the poor mare's thoughts. Instead, Sunday takes a step forward, bracing herself against the tidal wave of feeling that might project to her. "How can I help you?" she asks, instead of the litany of other questions that one might ask.

SUNDAY

never put your faith in a prince. when you require a miracle, trust in a witch

[Glassheart]

(Is this what it feels like when worlds collide?

She thinks that it might be, because she can feel the cataclysmic explosion the second

their bodies meet like two planets bound by a gravity that is both disastrous and amazing.

They have never made it this far before without resetting, but the sky now is lacking the

familiar warmth of pink that signals the sunset and the end of them. There is no end this time. There are no thorns, no hazels. There are no sunsets.

There is a river, but all that they bleed into today is each other.)

“How can I help you?”

Sunday asks, and Glassheart wonders fleetingly if this stranger can see past her flesh and to the bone as though her skin and muscle is all made up of glass. She’s surprised at how translucent she’s become, but the offer of help is hardly unwelcome - impossible, but not unwelcome. Because how could she even begin to describe what was happening inside her head? How could she even say out loud that there’s someone else? And even if she could, how could anything on earth exist to remedy it?

She doesn’t know about magic, at least not yet. Her mother had been careful to shield her from things like that - from monsters, and magic, and danger. Loveliar had known them all too well.

Her mother had loved her, but she wasn’t prepared for this.

(When it is over her golden skin is shimmering with sweat and the rosy glow of love, and

she looks across her shoulders at the lover she has spent her whole life waiting for. “I

love you like the rivers love the sea,” she says, and barely, because her heart is still

hammering and her lungs still feel as though they are breathless for every touch that Cordis supplied.)

Because the noise of it all was becoming unbearable - the world, the static, the memories - the sounds looped again, and again, and again. And suddenly, she’s reeling backwards from the disorienting assaults of all these feelings that aren’t hers, these things that never happened to her. 

“I don’t think you can help me,” she says, almost whimpers, because the noise is so loud and the images so vivid and bright - and wrong. She wants to ask her what her intruder wants from her, but can’t bring herself to speak the words aloud.

And then, for a moment, just one, the cacophony quiets. Glassheart can hear the breeze as it runs through the trees and rattles the leaves on their branches and the wildflowers at the bases of their ancient trunks, somewhere farther still she can hear the faint trickle of cool, running water. She breathes in, and when she does so she allows her eyes to close and her dark eyelashes to settle in along the tops of her cheeks. There is just one memory this time:

(“I will always come back to you.”

She doesn’t need to hear the words come back to her. She doesn’t need any lyrical

affirmations other than the feel of Cordis’ lips climbing the mountains of her vertebrae. It

is all the proof she needs that she is loved. It lingers in the dark of her eyes, like lightning

splitting fog into halves. She is loved. She is loved and Carnage could never take that back.

There are things that exist that even magic dares not touch.)

@[Sunday]