isoldewicken

[isoldewicken]

      NERISSA ​:

It was almost the end of the memoriams, festivities and jubilations. And due to a lack of activity in these past few weeks, Nerissa’s being thirsted for something, anything; some sort of action to break up the sense of restlessness she had felt ever since she had stood guard, making sure that she would be protecting those that the Horsemen had been employed to do so. A small sigh escaping her lips as she watched the way the mortals clung onto their ritualistic notions, Nerissa wouldn’t deny her boredom at witnessing their actions. Death was inevitable for them all. And yet they seemed to mourn this particular mortal more than most. Just because he had some status. He hadn’t even been felled in a particularly gruesome battle. Just passed away. How tedious.

It was a pity that Dmitri or Ryuk weren’t here by her side. It would have certainly made time pass faster, as she stood in her position, impatiently waiting for the changeover. Her keen eyes grazing over the crowd, they began to light up the moment she noticed a certain figure that stood apart from the crowds, almost as if they were observing them. Her lips quirking upwards at Isolde, her feet planted to a stop as she moved herself beside the other. “Wouldn’t it be more pertinent to ask what you see, Isolde?” She replied, bemused by the irony of the question as she brought the twirling of her knife to a halt.

In the firelight, Isolde stills, rendered momentarily speechless. It takes a minute, but soon she recognizes the striking outline of her lone companion: Nerissa, who is battle-ready in gleaming armor. She feels slow like molasses when compared to War—sweet as can be, but thick and dense. It is not an unfamiliar sensation: growing up, Estienne had always been the one with the whip fast tongue and taste for blood while Isolde usually played the willing victim, accepting their verbal lashings with little complaint. However, there is a discernable difference now: there is no underlying malice in Nerissa’s tone, just good humor and intelligence. To Isolde’s surprise, she feels a peal of laughter begin to bubble up from her belly, forging a path through her smoke-filled throat and past her parted lips. 

“I suppose that’s true to an extent, though I’m sure my answer would bore you.” Theatrically, she waves a hand over her veiled eyes before speaking again. “Tonight, I’m afraid, all I see is shadow and flame much like everyone else, though I’m near blind so my assessment is limited, of course.” Isolde knows that is not what she meant; she knows that Nerissa was inquiring about her visions of the future—apparently even the embodiment of War was not immune to the draw of her gift. “And before you ask, I’m not speaking in metaphor and so there's nothing to decipher. That’s why I want to know what you see, Nerissa.”

[isoldewicken]

who: @gadrieled​ when: late in the fourth week of the new moon where: in the gardens of the temple of the hundred-eyed god

For the first time in recent memory, Isolde finally feels at peace. Her concept of heaven is this: reclined beneath the branches of a budding fruit tree, listening to a temperate voice read lines of text with no obligation in sight. These opportunities to unwind come rarely now and consequently they are as treasured as the precious metals and cut jewels often donated to the Temple as a sort of tithe, though there is no expectation from the Faith to make such a contribution. Unlike the religions of the past, they do not hoard holy relics or erect grandiose monuments to commemorate their God and except for the occasional trinket, their followers largely pronounce their Faith by worship alone. 

When she compares the past to the present, Isolde often thinks of Gadriel. She was and still remains the old God’s most ardent follower. It is not a twist of fate or life’s usual drift towards irony that tasks her with protecting the high priestess of a religion that only came to be after her beloved God was cast down, but Michael, who strategically placed her here by Isolde’s side to watch and guard her unerringly in a move that, from her limited perspective, was political. Perhaps she should be a bit wary or fearful—Gadriel is, after all, infallible with her honed blade and she stands in total opposition of Isolde’s sole purpose in life, but in spite of these facts, Isolde finds solace in the angel’s constant presence.

It is her narration that Isolde concentrates on now: Gadriel has the right cadence and just enough patience to recite a story well. Although, at times, she can be rather reluctant to read to her, what matters is she eventually acquiesces. Today, the tale is an allegory about courage and perseverance—not so unlike what they have both endured in life. As they rapidly approach the story’s climax, Gadriel’s voice begins to ebb until finally there is a lengthy pause that is just as obvious and telling as a confession uttered on a deathbed. “What’s wrong?” She asks, shifting so that she can face the angel, concern etched on her delicate features. “Is it not to your liking?”

[isoldewicken]

— SALOME ​:

Focus is a funny thing. Moments prior she had stood one amongst many, aware of the eager rabble even with her eyes trained on a target. Now, as she stands before the object of fascinations, the bustle of the Temple fades into little more than a blurred background. Isolde stands incomparably sharp in her vision, a saturated figure of unrivalled colours and clarity. Salome cannot avert her stare even if she wished to; there is nothing else to look at, only void spaces where she is not.

Salome could not blame worshippers for falling at her feet; she too felt a pervasive craving for divine fulfilment.

 Each detail is noted: the fractional pause in response, the rising of fingers to face, the docility of compliments accepted. It seems the sweet poison of her words had sunk into vulnerable skin, that a priestess can be perturbed by reference to the scarred flesh she inhabits. Such information appears to Salome as a delicacy; flavoursome but fragile, to be indulged in sparingly. It gets locked away in her mind - this game will be long, the palatial web must be spun wisely. 

Isolde’s tentative words bring an amused exhalation from the demoness, stirring the air between them. Filmed, molten eyes seek one whose presence Salome had ensured the setting lacked. It had been the very cause of her long wait. “Know is perhaps too secure a word”. She intones, deliberately wistfully, so as to cushion any alarm her words may cause. Such was true – temperance is not a virtue she has much stomach for, nor does she imagine Gadriel to be a doting admirer of many facets of her own reputation. “Angels are far from welcoming.” she explains, dripping syruped words, “They do not speak for equality as you do, young priestess - not even Gadriel.” Such was also true; they were creatures moulded from unadulterated arrogance.

Truth alone, however, will win her few gains here. This she knows; this she has prepared for with poise and precision. And so she continues, talks at the priestess as she imagines all those who come to pour their woes into her lap must. “They mock my faith, fresh though it may be. They are unable to see past transgressions named so only by their old God.” She leaves her tale to hang in the air between them; her eyes do not even blink, fixated.

Only then, only after she has weaved such words, does she think to answer the question asked of her: what is your name? Facts and fiction may be mere instruments, but here she does not falter. Isolde can have her name – can have her faith and her devotion if accepted. In time she will reap just rewards.

( Besides, the girl is disadvantaged by her gifts. Salome will not conceal her identity unfairly – why, she isn’t a monster. ) 

“I am Salome.” she declares in light simplicity; there is no need to add more. The introduction is accompanied by a careful step forward, the space between them sliced, narrowed, invaded. “Please, touch. Know my face.” she says, quieter now, warmth and fervency mixing in her the lure of her tones. “It’s been said I am quite something to behold”. 

Please, touch. I am ravenous for it.

Salome’s voice is a siren’s song: perfectly calibrated to entice, beguile, and ensnare. In it, there is an underlying rhythm, something ancient that calls out to Isolde’s pulse, making it dance in her blood-filled arteries as if compelled. She is unsure of what it means—all she knows is the Temple is now jarringly quiet as the masses collectively focus on the scene unfolding before them, awaiting the next line patiently as if they are an audience watching a play set to script at the Globe.

Although Isolde admittedly lacks the charm the other so effortlessly displays, she begins anyway by speaking from the heart. “If equality is what you seek, then you have found it here. It exists for demons and angels alike—for any being who is willing to accept the Faith.” In truth, she is not unfamiliar with the vacillating nature of the celestial—after all, the followers of the Hundred-Eyed God are vast, including more than just the occasional errant worshipper—but the demoness' confession leaves her curious. She wants to press on, but she chooses not to. Instead, she leans back into the known: preaching benevolence and renewal while stretching out her arms to emphasize her point. “Your transgressions are not mine to judge, but what I can say is this: there is a new God for a new age.” 

Please, touch—it is such a simple request, thus difficult to refuse, especially in the midst of the ever-growing crowd. Even when the word had much less meaning in her mouth all those years ago, Isolde could never say no. She always has been far too lenient, far too accepting. Perhaps that is why she complies now, leaning in closer than before, bridging the gap between them.  

Isolde’s fingers lightly trace a wayward path down Salome’s face, beginning at the flat expanse of her forehead then drifting down the elegant slope of her nose to the cupid’s bow set before her full lips. Already, Isolde knows there is truth in Salome’s statement: she is indeed something to behold. Even her dulled vision can discern this fact. Although devoid of saturation and focus, Isolde’s eyes can see cold symmetry cut with the barest of imperfections. However, these minute flaws do not detract from her visage—instead, they somehow make her more captivating, more entrancing. 

Faintly, then, a memory stirs in the back of her mind of lessons once taught by her esteemed tutor Janus: she recalls learning of Salome who was not born of hell; Salome who was once mortal; Salome who, upon further reflection, had much in common with Gadriel. The comparison would likely be unwelcome, but not all immortals could claim a mortal pedigree. Now, her beauty makes sense—it is not quite the same as Azazel’s cold congruity or Arianne’s ephemeral appeal, but it is beauty nevertheless, beauty that has been suspended from time’s unerring touch much like a butterfly encased in amber. 

With her task finally complete, Isolde’s hands fall back down to her sides. Before anything else can happen, she decides to counter with more questions, sensing an unmissable opportunity manifesting: “Salome, have you come to partake in worship? Do you truly seek the Hundred-Eyed God?”

[isoldewicken]

who: @allureofarianne when: early in the fourth week of the new moon where: in the garden of eden

Spring beckons, waiting for no being—the green shoots propagating eagerly, peeking out from beneath a thin dusting of half-melted snow, their conquest conspicuous as they overtake the pale winter crocuses in their plant beds. It is Nature’s edict, an apt sign of the times, foreshadowing change in the face of adversity and Isolde can sense it quaking in the air. However, she is not the only one who notices the shift: Arianne Altier, perceptive as always, has seized upon that feeling and set it to motion, asking for an audience before any of the other Round Table members. Isolde can only assume she is here to make her case, to convince the All-Seeing Priestess of her suitability, and to boldly set herself in the heavens so that she may claim the role of the Star. 

That is why Isolde finds herself here: sitting on a stone bench awaiting Arianne’s arrival, her hands set demurely in her lap and her eyes cast downward towards her feet. It has been years since she last truly experienced the Garden of Eden in its full visual splendor, but there is still beauty to be observed. As if on cue, a songbird begins its merry tune nearby, no doubt searching for a companion. Not long later, she hears a rustle of skirts that she recognizes and in a voice that is both soft and welcoming, she says, “Arianne. Speak in harmony. It’s been so long, please come closer.”

[isoldewicken]

Louise Glück, “Averno.”

[isoldewicken]

“….and she, sweet lady, dotes, devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry, upon this spotted and inconstant man.”, from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream by W. Heath Robinson (1914)

[isoldewicken]

firstfullmoon​:

“Mother, I have pasts inside me I did not bury properly. Some nights, your daughter tears herself apart yet heals in the morning.”

— Ijeoma Umebinyuo, ‘Confessions,’ Questions for Ada (via decreation)

[isoldewicken]

       MICHAEL ​:

It feels unnatural—or perhaps inspiring—how quickly grief turns to joy in the creatures of the Holy Land. He can understand how easily the immortals present could move forward from the death of the Star—eternity is a long time to learn not to mourn something so inevitable. But it has been some time since he witnessed the elasticity of the human spirit. Two weeks have passed since the funeral of Cador and already there is laughter in the streets where there was just grief. The music and song that travels to his ears are that of celebration, so far removed to the softer tones of melancholy and heartache. He did not expect to stay long enough to see The Coming of Spring, but — coming to stand in front of a group of performers — he almost feels glad he has.

It is charming, the simple beauty of humanity. It’s never as clear as it is when they perform, Dancing has always been one of his favorites. He brings the glass of wine to his lips, all the while growing more and more aware of the weight of something more. Someone is approaching him. Briefly, he wonders if they know who he is. If this will be the moment he will have to draw back into himself. Hide the parts that he has allowed to come to the surface by purely by being alone. He will not resent them for that. He cannot.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He does not turn to the body who has come to rest beside him. Instead, he gestures with his glass, lets his tongue run the length of his lips catching the last drop of wine.

She doesn’t need a ceremony to mark the passage of winter—no, she can tell it is coming to a conclusion based on how the ground thaws, the dirt softening beneath her very feet. Still, Isolde observes The Coming of Spring, recognizing that it is about more than just a change in seasons: as far as she can tell, it is the line that separates the end from the beginning, it is a reason to believe in the oblique possibility of the future, it is permission to hope vainly for something altogether different this year, and is that not what they pray for now?

Even though it is just a day—made evident by how The Coming of Spring was surreptitiously retimed when Cador’s death was announced—it is today and therefore, the streets are raucous with celebration once again. As they shake the snow off of their clothes, the Holy Land sheds their grief like a bird molting its old, damaged coat, sprouting new plumage for a new year. This is true renewal and it is always quite the sight to behold.

Somehow, drawn in by the revelry on the streets, Isolde finds herself off the beaten path, away from where she should be, somewhere deep in the maze of the city. Surprisingly, she encounters Michael here, alone and enchanted by the performers as if he has never seen anything so wonderful. For a moment, she is struck by his sincere assessment, equally moved by the scene because she is experiencing it through his perspective. When she moves to stand next to him, Isolde is careful not to shatter his reverie, speaking softly, just loud enough to be heard over the swell of the music. “It is certainly beautiful, but you don’t need me to be your echo. Tell me, what else do you see? My vision isn’t what it used to be.”

[isoldewicken]

— SALOME ​:

WHO: Salome & Isolde [ @isoldewicken ] WHERE: The Temple of the Saints WHEN: New Moon; Second Week; Memoriam of the First Twilight

Creation had been razed and forged anew, and yet the humans were as they had always been. She has thought it often over the centuries, and she did so again now as they shared and gave in the name of the dead. Charity, benevolence, equality – the same had been preached in her own mortal lifetime, and she’d watched as others fell at the feet of such notions. Here again she watched as they united in acts of staged generosity, distributing goods in the name of a dead Star who clearly wanted for nothing in his own life. Now, where was the honesty in that?

Still, Salome had not flown to the Holy Land to musingly observe the nature of mortals. Nor had she gone to the Temple of the Saints to exercise the compassion of her heart so much as a deep compulsion. From where she stood in the shadows of the Temple, delicately leant against cool marble, she had the perfect view.

A priestess. One they called All-Seeing.

It was not the first she had laid eyes on the woman. How could it be? She had watched her at every celebration of each moon cycle – a spider appraising a vibration in its web – just as she had each seer before. Salome could not ignore such a temptation if she tried – and why ever would she ever try to? She had only resisted thus far because patience truly was a virtue. Now though, now there was the scent of change in the air. Death gave life to new possibilities; the renewal of spring was felt in even blackened hearts. 

The Temple was distracted by its rituals, the presence of so many was not a hindrance but a benefit. Why not be conspicuous when one was merely being friendly? It was easy, to slim her wings and weave closer, closer, close to the object of her visit, until she was standing at the woman’s side. She was unsure (and uncaring) if her presence had been felt, openly scrutinising the other’s face without so much as an introduction. “I’d heard Gadriel had acquired a new charge,” was her eventual offering, as if Isolde had only now entered her consciousness. “Mm. The scars suit you far better than they did the last.”  Her voice was sweet (sickly) where the words were sharp, designed to both compliment and unnerve. A pause, and then she bowed her head in imitation of a formal greeting. “Priestess.” Why, even the word tasted divine.

Of all the various funerary rites, the Memoriam of the First Twilight is easily her favorite—there is no pretense, no real melodrama; it is simply a day of giving. This is especially true in the Temple of the Saints where she presides over the event: here, the mourners all comply willingly, exchanging goods without the expectation of compensation, bent on the act of charity. Cador’s family has already come and gone, parceling out his more valuable and sentimental belongings amongst each other before donating the rest of his vast fortune to the public. The Temple attendants divvy it up, ensuring the funds and gifts are distributed appropriately. Today, it seems, the rich are not exempt and the poor are not excluded. Today, it seems, no one will go hungry and no one will go cold. What more could one want?

Eager to be a part of it all, Isolde busies herself by dispensing crystallis and soft-spoken blessings—as usual, the people seek both in equal measure. A line forms and snakes back beyond her eyesight, winding around the statues like a ball of string come unbound. Slowly and methodically, she progresses through it, imparting a handful of gems and a verse of well wishes to each and every person, unaffected by the tedium of the act. Because of her focus, at first, Isolde doesn’t notice how they press back when a woman slips into the front of the queue, her saltwater blue eyes glinting as she hones in on her target. Because of her focus, Isolde only sees the woman when she is standing before her, speaking words that are simultaneously sweet yet stinging: the scars suit you far better than they did the last.

Immediately, Isolde is reminded of her mother: Lady Wicken’s memory as tenacious and dark as tar seeping up from the ground. The thought comes unbidden and unwelcome, obtrusive as ever, much like her mother had once been. She wants to wash her hands of it, to scour it from her being until it is back to bright and burnished, but Isolde is already stained. 

“Oh, that’s kind of you to say…” She replies passively as she presses her slender fingers to the crest of her cheeks, tracing the scars the Blood Plague had gifted her—suddenly all too aware of that golden mark meant to delineate, supposedly evidence of unconfined divinity. “Thank you.” Still dismayed, Isolde hastily attempts to redirect the conversation, lacking the grace to do so skillfully, but too desperate to care. “You know Gadriel? She's here somewhere.” She looks around for her shadow, her guard, only then remembering she had sent her away earlier to the outskirts of the Temple. “What’s your name? I’ll tell her you came.”

[isoldewicken]

who: @ofncrissa​ when: on the memoriam of the last twilight, the fifth day of the second week of the new moon where: in front of the tridium temples

From atop the Temple steps, it is difficult to feel the will of the people: up here, much like their namesakes—the Sun, the Moon, and the Stars—they are removed and distant, seemingly lightyears away. Isolde is not quite included in that celestial configuration, but out of obligation she stands with them, brought forth to flex the nexus between church and state, yet often eclipsed, even when only two remain. This is the way it is supposed to be though, the way it has been since the advent of this forged bond; it predates her existence and will likely continue on even when she is the one burning on that pyre just a short distance away: no longer anything but ash, decay, and memory. Despite her status, on days like today, Isolde feels achingly mortal and unremarkable. She yearns to mourn with the masses in the streets below and to partake in their version of grieving.

As soon as the formal ceremony is over and the pyre is aflame, Isolde indulges in that compulsion, willfully mixing in with the crowd. She absorbs their prayers and laughter, all too affected by the scene before her to notice she is being directed towards the blaze. Up close, the heat feels suffocating: it permeates the thin barrier of her veil, rolling off the pyre in scorching sheets. Only one other hovers near her, enraptured by the rhythmic movement of the flames. More curious than wary, Isolde approaches them, a single question perched on her parted lips: “What do you see?”

[isoldewicken]

— ROMILDA ​:

DATE: first twilight of the first day of the first week of the new moon LOCATION: temple of the hundred-eyed god STATUS: for @isoldewicken​

There was likely no need for this - no need for Romilda to be so out of breath as she sprinted to the Temple where Isolde resided, no need for sweat to bead her brow or for her lungs to ache and her thighs to burn. Yet she was determined to ensure that she was there for Isolde, should her friend be the last of the revered mortals to learn the news of the fallen Star. Always on the outskirts, the first to see but the last to know. Perhaps it was a wicked irony that the Fates had sniggered at when they had plucked at threads of Isolde’s story - and though Romilda herself loved Fate, she was never one to abide such blatant cruelty, so time and time again she sought the high priestess in hopes of bringing her into the mantle of the Gifted. To make her feel like she is one with than, rather than other. 

What Isolde was doing up at these ungodly hours, Romilda had no clue - but she was glad there was no need for her to invade the private space of the Seer. Perhaps she had already had her visions and knew that they were coming to pass, or maybe she sensed the restlessness that seemed to permeate the air. Romilda held out a hand as she doubled over, to catch her breath, gasping as though she might very well keel over. She would have had Baldur lope his way over to the Temple that was no short distance from that of the Tridium Temples but when she had tried lifting him to his feet, he simply rolled onto his side and pretended he was sleeping. So, here she was, holding aloft a finger as she tried to remember how to keep oxygen moving in and out of her lungs. 

“My…” she licks her lips, straightening up as she wipes the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “Iso-…”

Her throat felt so incredibly dry. Perhaps this was meant to be a means of expelling her grief, but instead all Romilda could think about was having some water wet her tongue instead of the tears of the members of the Round Table, the tears of innumerable mortals that would follow once the couriers reached the villages upon the outskirts of Sanctus Terra. 

“Cador is dead,” she gasps out. “He’s dead and they’re going to elect a new Star. I didn’t…didn’t want you to be the last to hear of it among the Gifted.”

Sleep eludes her tonight, maneuvering out of her clambering reach; Isolde pursues it, but all to no avail—not unusual, except for the reason why: her canary warbles ceaselessly, the notes aligning themselves in an intricate composition, a lovely aria if not for the implication. In essence, it is a warning: Ariadne’s birdsong is a harbinger much like Isolde’s sight. Both are vague, but rarely ever wrong. They wait patiently together, but the answer comes soon enough: silhouetted by moonlight, barely discernable in the dark shroud of the night, yet with all the bearing of a hero mid-quest, Romilda is on her stoop, panting out a stilted message: Cador is dead.

The sentence pulls her into a memory, a dream, a vision: there, Isolde is surrounded by inky black skies, moonless, but speckled with stars—she peers down at it all as if the world has been upended and that is how she feels: disoriented and amiss. Faintly, she tastes raw almonds on her tongue, sweet yet bitter, rotted even, but before she can investigate further, the scene dissipates like fog caught in the daylight. Was this its meaning all along? With ease, Isolde recalls the prophecy’s transcription, jolted down by the Second Eye in looping script on a page in a journal she can never read with her own eyes. Now, that passage belongs to the annals of history as a promise come to fruition, her gift actualized and memoralized for posterity.

When Isolde finally props the door open, she is apologetic, bright light spilling out of her room, no longer contained. “Please, come in—I’m sorry, I’ve been so rude.” She directs Romilda to where a pitcher of water sits half-filled, suddenly realizing that she had journeyed here on foot, sprinting through the pitch-black labyrinthine streets to hand-deliver this news. Isolde is taken aback, overcome by the gesture, grateful for the little sacrifice made on her behalf. It still amazes her how a single act can bear such significance; how tenderness, when wielded appropriately, cuts down to the bone.

Her voice turns butter-soft as she sits and faces Romilda. Already, Isolde feels Cador’s loss keenly, but her friend’s presence eases the sting, acting as a salve for the soul. Even now, her divinity shines through, the Hundred-Eyed God’s influence ever present. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness. I am saddened by the news, but appreciative of the effort you put into informing me.” Isolde pauses before continuing again, using the break in cadence to contemplate her question, then she asks: “Who shall we look to now?”

[isoldewicken]

        ZADKIEL​ :

date: the seventh day of the third week of the new moon location: the temple of the saints status: closed for @isoldewicken

The Temple of Saints isn’t a place Zadkiel finds himself often – he’d attended Cador’s funeral festivities, of course, but before that it was a rarity. For all of its allure, the draw of mortals who would have been equated to gods once, for the simple marvel of looking and seeing them as they might have once been rendered, he can hardly bear it. It feels, at times, like looking at the ripple in the pond that comes from the stone of his own choices.

The Gifted – as they are called, although he wonders how many of them consider themselves truly gifted – are the direct result of God and Lucifer both meeting their ends. He had played no small part in that. Pretending otherwise would be heresy.

It’s so absurd at times that he wants to laugh. Or weep. He isn’t sure which. He is looking, now, at the face of a woman, half of her features cast in the distinct shine of gold. When the sun hits it just right, as it is now, it’s painted a red sort of hue, a little like blood, close enough to tears. Her name at the foot of the pedestal, carved meticulously, is faded enough that he can barely read it. The statues themselves seem well tended. As for who they actually were, what history will remember them to be?

Zadkiel has lived for centuries… if one could even call it living. He couldn’t say. How many names has he held in his mouth, thinking them worth something, that are now lost to time? How many Angels? Worse, still, with their middling lifespans: how many Men?

It seems happenstance that he find himself here, and that she is walking the same halls, but Zadkiel feels Isolde’s presence before he sees her. That is a name he cannot forget, no matter how much he wishes he could. He runs his tongue over the back ridge of his mouth and repeats it, time and time again: Isolde, Isolde, Isolde. There’s no other reason to do so beyond the wonder of getting to say it, even to himself. God, he thinks, has cursed him. He turns to look for her, just a length down the hall, and quickens his pace to match hers. It’s not difficult; he’s quite tall. He still can’t feel a little clumsy, even so, chasing after her like a hound after a scrap of fabric. He clears his throat to catch her attention: “Lady Isolde – I hope you’re well.”

There is a stillness here that she prefers, even over the comfort of home in the Temple of the Hundred-Eyed God. It is quiet and more often than not, she is alone—encircled only by dark-veined sculptures that, on occasion, cast sweeping shadows on the floor when the light angles itself just right. Of course, it is all about the timing: if she arrives too early, there are still devotees milling about, eagerly pressing their offerings into outstretched palms and empty baskets; if she arrives too late though, the solemn custodians sweep in, erasing the events of the day, silent in their work, but their presence obtrusive nevertheless. No—this is when Isolde can best find solitude: at dusk, when the sun lazily sinks into the wide horizon, nearly swallowed whole by a mass of land and trees. 

However, that is not quite true today. He somehow manages to find her here at this hour. Whether it is purposeful or accidental, she doesn’t know, but surprisingly she is not upset by the development.   

Before Isolde can react though, she hears Zadkiel begin his approach, his footfalls growing louder and subsequently closer with each inhale. How he is able to time his steps with the tempo of her breaths perplexes her, but for some unknown reason she does not feel the need to question it—if anything, it seems natural. So, Isolde continues on, keeping her pace even in an attempt to appear unaffected. She doesn’t quite notice yet that he is falling into step with her; that in some ways he is more aware of her own body than she is. Instead, Isolde focuses on his words.

Zadkiel says her name with such careful tenderness, in a way that is foreign to her, a way that makes her chest squeeze, setting her heart aflutter with the frenetic energy of a hummingbird’s wings mid-flight. She presses the sound into her memory, preserving it like a plucked flower nestled between the pages of a thick book, so that later, when she revisits the moment, she will be able to dissect each syllable and compare it pound for pound against its previous iterations, measuring it up to her mother’s version, even Estienne’s.

“How kind, Zadkiel. I am well—are you?” Her response is polite; it does not convey the well of emotion simmering beneath her skin. She tilts her face towards him, not looking directly at him, afraid that if she does, she will feel like she did that first time: stripped away and torn asunder. “You came for the funeral? Will you be staying long?”

[isoldewicken]

who: @venenumdei when: early in the fourth week of the new moon where: in front of the temple of the saints

It is mid-morning and she is already breathless from exertion, droplets of sweat beading on the smooth expanse of her forehead. Up above, the sun is unrelenting and consequently the temperature climbs rapidly, an odd occurrence for this time of the year. However, she is surrounded by a throng of faithful worshippers who further contribute to the problem—their heat commingling with hers—especially as they press in tighter to form concentric circles, creating beautiful geometric patterns that can only be observed from overhead. Truly, their piety is a sight to behold and Isolde is at the center of it all. If she is uncomfortable, she doesn’t voice it. Instead, she wordlessly allows them to intently watch her. If they are uncomfortable, they don’t voice it. What they want becomes evident now: they are desperate for some form of guidance. 

Even in the lull of the ritual they all seem to mimic her movements unconsciously: as she attempts to replenish the air in her lungs, they also take a collective breath in; as she aimlessly shifts her feet on the ground, they also drag their soles across the face of the gravel—she can hear it and feel it: their desire to follow. Isolde knows they will never freely admit it, but their devotion comes at a price. Today, they hunger for permission to move forward with their lives and they want her approval as the All-Seeing Priestess. It has been three long weeks since their Star has fallen and though there is a burgeoning sense of renewal in the air, grief still lingers like smoke and ash spit out from a newly extinguished fire. If she does not grant their wish, then soon this stasis will choke and poison them.

Her voice is hoarse from singing, but it still rings out loud and true when she speaks, “Be still, do not fret. Endings give way to beginnings, let this be your opportunity to start anew.” There is an implication in her words for those that are paying close attention: if the world can continue on, so can they. Isolde has not foreseen it, but she has lived it. This is the onerous lesson her past has taught her, through Their eyes she only looks to the future now.

Regardless, her assertions are enough to placate the masses and they disperse, returning to their everyday lives. She pivots to follow, but as she begins to depart Isolde sways unsteadily, her mortality undeniable in this instance. Instinctively, she shuts her eyes, but that compounds the sensation and soon she feels as if she has been dunked in turbulent water, swirling in a whirlpool, half-drowned and gasping for respite. Then a hand stabilizes her, gripping her forearm firmly. For an instance, she thinks it is Gadriel, but she remembers that the angel did not accompany her today. “Oh—” she manages weakly, “—thank you.”

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@sydneyjharper by @solmazsaberi

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when mary oliver said “i tell you this to break your heart by which i mean only that it break open and never close again to the rest of the world” and when warsan shire said “ya allah if it’ll keep my heart soft, break my heart every day” 

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Mary Oliver, from Devotions: “Franz Marc’s Blue Horses”