- Jan 1, 2023
- 18
- 2
- 3
( HI first of all sorry for the length lmao i just have lots of muse for her! no need to match it at all. TW for both brief and detailed mentions of self-deprecation, unreality, religion, death, blood, and gore - the sensitive parts have been separated by a dash. ALSO a lot of this is like... what she thinks rather than what is actually real dw dw its intentionally vague )
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To bleed is to live.
She remembers the first rabbit she ate. Blood swathes around her cowls and tongue, a taste so alien yet so inviting, like the ambrosian river to the parched throat. It drips down her chin, a stream of wine-red upon sandy coat, staining her with the stripes of gauche esse. Strokes of feverish warmth stoke her stomach. It becomes part of her body, and its blood becomes her blood.
She remembers the first wound she drew. Scarlet emerges from the surface of sallow skin, a fountain that tempts her to plunge deeper to see just how rich the red can get. It dribbles along the edges of fleece and fur, standing against the pristine greys and whites, as the stark sun stings at the naked body. A flash of russet against alabaster, an exposed streak of stone along the banks of snowdrift, a sharpness that leaches through softness. If she must revel in such glory, then she shall bathe in the thrill.
She remembers the first bite she made upon her enemy. The same metallic tang floods her senses, and a ravenous appetite croons upon her cradled gut as a lust that seeds itself upon the impressionable soil. It is the same blood as the rabbit, the same comfort of the knife she knows, and the same bond between her and her prey. The blade shows no discriminate discernment, thus cleaving through flesh in abundant indulgence all the same. She wants more, more than it can give her.
She remembers the first feline she killed. Crimson flees from gaping orifices, spluttering ungraceful and unfettered anathema, but she sees naught but beauty in how the red fights to escape. Only liquid moves after the body ceases, quavering into a slow ebb like a lullaby that, too, would fade into a strident silence. Choking out what word it can offer the sullied air, the vessel fails and curls upon itself. A floret holds upon fringes of tints until its petals wilt and melt away, and it is left a barren, bowing stem.
And she remembers the first time she bled. It is a flush of adrenaline from a familiar claw's inflection, rosied rushes clamoring to where the lesion had lain its stake, a swelling that gifts more heat than anything else she has felt before. It hurts, but she barely notices the pain. It is a relief of camaraderie. It is the realization that she is alive.
She is alive, and she bleeds.
A splitting migraine wakes Melusine from her slumber as if something tries to pry her very skull open, as cold claws of heaven render her unguarded and uncovered. Her damp pelt reeks of the stench of death, as it permeates throughout her entire being, sinking into bones and melding to earth. A wet puddle of something clings to the back of her cranium, as it soaks an otherwise-pristine fur, with the cold forenoon's drafts blowing upon it. Her world spins and words barely emerge from her mind to meet her tongue. It is unlike her to be so... vulnerable.
She rolls into an upright position with all the strength she can muster and joints snap as if they had fallen into disuse, though have only been contorted by a rather ungainly positioning. Whatever has happened to her has left her in ruin. The Abyssinian-colored feline stares at the particular color that this something takes as she places one paw to it, as it smears along the edges of abraded paw and pad, like a splatter of dark varnish splayed across an unblemished canvas. A stroke, a glory, a want, a floret, a realization. A weak smile floods her visage, as it lingers at the tapers of her crane-esque features, as if the clay that made it up had not been molded for so long. Prints of strained hand lay upon the world-weary feline's countenance, battered yet unbroken. It's blood. I'm bleeding. Which means...
Her sudden urge to jolt to her feet sends a searing bolt of electricity through her head, as the heavens deliver her mortal body a divine intervention and remind her of the permanence of transience. Rasping groans leave her throat, as though dust and dirt had collected in the pipe, as though a thistle had lodged itself upon the base of the burdened lung. She hangs her crown to face the shadows below, as an uncertain head bobs and dances to an arrhythmic melody, and her memory swims and lilts upon the waters of amnesia. She feels more aqueous than solid, as if returning to the ground that had weaned her. She is tired, and it yawns over her as an ambient yet heavy shadow. And yet, her spirit does not dull. I survived.
But, where is everyone else? Even with her limited mobility, she senses no familiar presence to accompany her to this destined world, and long whiskers twitch as if in disbelief. That could not be so. They are meant to come to this new world together. She does not allow the flame of hope to even falter, for the notion of denial is far stronger than any dose of reality, and she would rather drink from the well of dissent than allow her defeat to define her. Thus, the spirit of fire planted by Fortuna germinates evermore. Have I failed us as the Lamb? No, that cannot be. I did everything right. They will follow.
It takes hours before she is even able to stand, and by then, limbs croak as though they pride themselves upon brittle glass instead of tempered tendon. The leakage from the back of her head stops, though the moisture still persists and fur forms into thorns of caked ichor. She faces the morning's light, squinting and shying away from such brilliance, as if it is to deign her instead of exalt her. She, child of the golden dawn, shies away from the very rays that would have held her in gentle grasp. She could not help it if it is to burn so ostentatiously. Still, it shines upon her wound, if she herself is not the wound upon its sight. Her weakness makes her a sorer sight in this new world.
Hm. This does not feel as... glorious as I imagined it to be. Is rebirth meant to echo through her very hull? Is the snakeskin of yesterday meant to grieve the morrow? Will her regrets remain by her hallowed side forever?
She paces around the empty hollows, circling about the trodden paths of her forefathers, washed away by the unforgiving swathe of a nature beyond her. She recognizes as the place that had birthed her, the place where she learned of her purpose, the place where she had gained Fortuna's blessing. Now, only ghosts howl in the stead of rapturous chatter, as though only the wind played through instruments of creation and civilization, and her history deteriorates into a rust-rimmed memory. Where are you? Where are you? Please, give me a sign. She prays, more to Fortuna than anyone around. Destruction rings upon each sullen twig and den. It is loneliness in its most honest form - a brutal pleasantry, a wisp upon the wildfire of the wilds.
Then, a ruddy hue flashes upon the edge of her eyesight, like the hare that hops through harrowed wildgrasses. She finds the strength to move towards it, and the first motions are cautious and wobbling, as though a newborn fawn tangling in its gangling legs. Excitement dons each paw step, and gradually it becomes faster and faster. Truly, life is spurred by little spurts of hope such as this. They are the morsels that Fortuna is gracious enough to provide, and they are enough to live by for her.
But what she sees only drains whatever complexion is left of the whittled cat, and her claws dig into the ground, for the flight of the fledgling is always marred by catastrophe. Her mother's mangled body catches upon a holly bush's branches, head downwards and limbs suspended, as though more of a motionless doll than the woman that had given her life. Her ivory eyes peel open and crooked mouth lays agape as if in mockery of her own ironically grim situation. She does not bleed.
--
It has been a moon since Melusine faced that grisly sight. Still, it ruminates within the affixes of dreams and nightmares alike, as the specters that haunt the insides of her skeleton, a whispery melody of an inevitable tragedy. The solemn bell tolls, just as the unfulfillment of her one purpose does. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It should have been me. She thinks it every day, but she doubts Fortuna actually forgives her. Still, she bows.
She nearly collapses at an unfamiliar border, fatigue washing over her as the waves shoal over the coast, hugging at its side as it continually consumes at its attenuation. It is remarked by an overwhelmingly unfamiliar scent that rubs against her nostrils - it is the smell of the oak trees and their mighty shadows, the small of a culture that blooms through the roots and shades of the forest. She breathes out a hoarse whisper of winter, laden in the shivers and wavers of her own state, of whose frame threatens to crumble under the paper-thin weight of the air around her.
Still, Melusine composes herself for the clan cats, and manages to stand up on her four feet. She has heard of the clans and the colonies from faint stories woven by her parents, though none had even been drawn in a positive light. She is nothing but hesitant, but she has no choice. If she is to fulfill her purpose, then she must nurse herself to health. They are my blood-kin*. They will help me, I am sure. She has heard of the clans' bleeding hearts, and how she could wring them in her favor. She doesn't know what else to do.
* blood-kin : the term she and her family uses/used to refer to a feline, no matter their affiliation or familial relation
