Unsound

I watched, compassionless, as it burst into flame.

Thick, frayed wool clotted my flesh. My breaths scraped hoarse in the silence, light upon my lungs in the bladed morning air. What little sleep I had harboured sank to the bitter pits of my stomach, sifting uneasily as I woke, easing myself from the mattress.

Marble lay, quiescent upon the bed beside my own. Ma lay within the confines of her room still; she had remained dressing the wound into the early hours as the hoof of the clock lurched forth into yet another hour, in the black beyond the candle, her hooves moving deftly; swiftly, her eyes sharp in their wariness.

My tongue scraped dry upon my teeth as I lurched down the steps, folding my leg behind before clearing the dining room and ambling into the pale wash of sky, the palling horizon beige in the dust.

I entered the barn.

The cart, as ever, lay stubborn upon the rotting hay, reluctant to my touch as I eased myself into the clamp of its metal grasp, abrading as would be stone in its disrepair.

The trundling rhythm seemed not as at ease; as agreeable as it had been to my twin. My flesh seemed alien upon its touch, my stride impeded by its swaying gait. I raised my eyes to the sky, my mane brushing back upon my withers. The skies washed pale as they did so rarely, almost sickly in the passing of dawn, and yet brought no warmth to these lands; the earth remained cold and stale, the air crisp and smothering in its fever.

My hooves spat dust and chips of earth as I staggered, clad in the mucid chill as would be the flesh of one departed. It seemed odd; irrelevant somehow, that I could be bound so tightly in mortality yet adrift in the beige of the earth; of the sky. Of nowhere. It seemed little a matter in the quiet.

The ataraxy seemed reminiscent of time from which little had passed - whence there had been a third child among us; sacrosanct in her delicacy, her little hooves caked in dust, her mane glinting rose in the dim light. I gazed out upon the horizon, the wind teasing at my mane, the silence the echo only of my breaths.

This was no place for a child.

Upon moonrise I finally took my leave, limping into the stomach of timber with my head hung low, my spine alight in wearied pain and my mane brushed aback. The metal grasp of the cart had chafed at my withers, bloody and raw in the meagre light as I settled at the table to eat.

Sir was nowhere to be seen; perhaps coveted within the confines of his room, whiskey in hoof. Ma once more had abandoned her pots and pans to hiss and writhe, her attentions stolen to my sibling.

My ears tuned to the silence, the stray clicks of the house abrading as it uncoiled in trepid repose. I hobbled to my hooves, grit chafing between my limbs as I clambered up the steps once more, each lurch cumbrous upon my joints in the late hour.

Clacks resounded down the hallway as my hooves struck the timber, leaving no mark in their wake other than the fallen dust. My tail ushered the few traces aside as I hobbled into the confines of our room.

Marble lay, unresponsive in the depths of her slumber. I sighed, my raw flesh blistering as I clambered onto my bed and nestled into the blanket.

(This was no place for a child...)

The light breeze drew quick upon the ashen soil, clouds starved and ribbed in their haste, fled from the gullet of the peaks so distant upon the horizon. Rocks, studded upon the earth like unbidden growths, sought to obstruct the passage of the cart and I; the wheels whining and my spine tingeing as we wove our way towards the East field. Little had changed since the morning before; the air was brisk and arid, the dust clinging to my fur.

My stride faltered, my hooves grovelling in the dirt as I gazed upwards, my eyes resting upon a rift; a lapse in the continuum of dust and rocks - of the mutters of aged timber, the stench of whiskey or the touch of feverous deliriums in the night.

The tree was blackened, its bark withered and smooth, skeletal. Veins clawed in stark contrast to the pallid skies, the sheer blackness of the growth seemingly unable to do anything other than scrabble - reach elsewhere than the dust to which it seemed to such odds at. Elsewhere than the stones, the haze that lay heavy upon the eye in the distance, or the ravenous jaws of the mountains. To the clouds - to the sky. It seemed to clamber towards to the sun; towards the light.

I unhitched myself from the cart, crumpling to my knees at it's roots.

We all knew where the sun went.

It was as the crimson had been ushered aside by the coming darkness that I limped, my hooves clacking upon the floors, into the shelter, the creaks like the murmurs of aged throats to my ears as I settled down to eat, before drawing from the seat to the sanctum of my room.

The corridor was dark; dank as the stench of thatch descended upon the hallway like a fog. My tongue curled as I hobbled, my chest weak, fluttering in the sudden quiet. Ma's clattering sounded distant; a mere echo on the air. The wood had fallen silent. I walked the hallway alone, the candles stale as I made my way towards our room.

Marble's coat had an odd, iridescent quality; the indigo tarnished to a metallic, worn grey - cold in the remaining candlelight, bitter, foul and yet sterile all the same.

My throat tightened, my head raising in the slightest.

Her eyes were open.

Upon my approach, she appeared to recoil, her muscles stiffening, her pupils retracting - wild and fearful. There was no blood; as I had hoped - instead, the shadows strung like cobwebs to the ceiling; the crisp, defined edges, curled in time and age between wooden planks and to her, her shoulders ever so slightly swaying, as if she were upon a boat of her own making; where dust had gathered, the black yarn of dusk spinning, spinning.

The rhythm in my chest fluctuated; burning, it's wings abrading my eardrums with their thunder as I stumbled back, only to discover the wielding presence of the door, now containing; confining, as her gaze became leaden - black in the coming dark.

I hobbled across, reaching for the doorknob before my ears perked. Marble's silvery voice sang light, airy, the web of the spider, caught adrift by the breeze. Her lips spoke with the allurance - the promise of the chime of the wine glass, the singing, melodic, knife-tip tune when rubbed at its rim, wavering. Faltering. Repeating.

"Burn."

The door creaked wide, blood roaring in my ears as my hooves skittered.

"Burn."

I bolted into the hallway, the clack my hooves seemingly off-kilter, my ears ringing and my chest thrumming.

"Burn..."

I staggered further back, the scent of long-dead smoke accenting the darkness with a stomach-coiling tang.

(Burn burn burn burn burn burn...)

Grinding my hoof against the wood, I turned to face the long-stilled candles, cold and silent.

(...burn burn burn burn burn burn...)

The wick flickered to life.