there was a garden of evil in the palm of my hand; dayé

[sochi]

there are wolves in my head and their howling
there was a garden of evil in the palm of my hand

This moment has the pitch and frequency of a fever dream.

(Pangea has risen.)

It all feels like a dream, like a nightmare, and she struggles to discern what is realty from what is not. Had she been called to the beach? Had she felt the pieces of earth worm their way into her? Had she killed that mare? Had she died herself? none of it makes sense. None of the puzzle pieces fit together and her head swims and then aches as she tries, trying to pull them apart and lay it flat so she can trace her path back.

She had been in the field. The meadow?

(Pangea has risen.)

She cranes her neck down to where her chest burns, the tattoo aching as if freshly torn. She glances back up, half blind in her pain, muscles shivering, bones trembling. She moans in her throat at the soft touch of Dayé’s velvet nose to her skin and leans into his, silver eyes closing as she savors the feel of it.

This is real. This is truth.

(Pangea has risen.)

The other mare’s words can be heard, but it as if it is through a fog and Sochi rages at the weakness that claims her limbs. She was not meant to be this. She was meant to be a predator—a fighter. Not to succumb to some disease planted in her by the dark god himself. She wants to spit on his face. She wants to tear his throat out with her own teeth, feel the dark and vile blood cover her tongue.

Instead she coughs and leans heavily against Dayé, nodding slowly at the suggestion.

Yes, she needs rest. She needs to lie down.

She needs…she needs to tell her something.

Her brain slowly ticks, the cogs working as she coughs again, leaning away and then back into the mare at her side. “Dayé..” her voice is weak, quiet, strained as she tries to piece together the syllables.

What was she trying to tell her?

She stumbles through the mental fog, grasping for the edges of a thought before it comes screaming back to life. Her eyes widen and she twists, the shivers in her body turning to trembles—fearful, loathing.

“Pangea,” she coughs, trying to spit out the words. “It’s back. It’s risen.”

now I'm broken and bleeding, I’ll never find my way

S

OCHI

stranger in this land