#i loooove writing witchy dark fairy tale things

[foxclcves]

𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒊𝒅 (𝒏𝒐𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 01)

For all of my life, I was blind to the world as the world was blind to me. It had never occurred to me before how dark and quiet my state of existence was until I began to dream, and in my dreams I saw visions of monsters and flowers. And among them, my mother adorned a veil of spider webs.

I never felt the creases and hollows of her face in my infancy, and of course I never saw her the way many others see, but I knew her all the same. She called to me every night, and her somber lullabies coaxed me to sleep, and in my unconscious mind I bore witness to a forest of bone and ash; a living breathing thing lacking vibrancy and color. The evergreens were far from their deep green and every crow, rabbit, deer, and raven was pallid, as though drained of life and left to wander with their carcasses alone. Even those who traveled in throngs, herds, or packs, seemed isolated from one another and unaware of each others’ presence. But every single one of them was beautiful in their alienation as they wandered through trees as I did, alone. Though unlike me, their essences shimmered like freshly fallen snow under the light of the sun or the moon. Two eternal partners, of which, did not live here. A place so far from both the sun and moon could not be anything but a dream.

I walk on flowers. I tread through their stems and their petals tickle and coat my legs in pollen as if they wished to drain me of color as well. I briefly wondered if herbivores grazed these meadows and took from them, and then in turn the carnivores and scavengers devoured them not long after, and their own colors vanished. And if so, where did all the color end up? I felt I might have my answer but I did not risk replying to myself just yet. I continued my venture through the flowers, multi-headed, shape shifting, swelling and sinking. My feet were dusted by the earth, though I could not feel any traces of the ground at all.

And lo, I saw my mother, veiled and slight, but so tall and imposing. She was among the flowers as she always was, and in her presence I felt the unseen monsters feel slighted by such power and fade away, back into the trees. Arms opened wide to me, my legs moved on their own, and any semblance of caution or fear that bubbled up in my throat was conquered by an unknown numbing agent. I felt her arms embrace me, consume me. Her rib cage against mine felt like the teasing of teeth against my skin through my clothes, but I could not pull away. The trees around us a circle, the trees around us spun and spun and in the sky there was nothing, nothing at all. In her realm only, my mother was a god and one does not simply invite themselves into such an entity’s space. They must be beckoned; they must be summoned. I wondered not for the first time what sort of rituals my mother conducted to bring me here, or to keep such a dimension so well preserved and consistent. There was only birdsong when she willed it. The flowers knew no season or weather, and knew not what it was to be ripped from their roots. And certainly, things such as wolves were forbidden from the meadows. On occasion, I still found their footprints, testing the perimeters within the bounds of the thick, dark treeline.

My mother always used bone and cartilage to comb and brush my hair, and when she did, it rippled through many shades: gray, silver, white, dark purple, dark blue, shimmering gold. She cleansed my face with rosewater and readied my hands with soot from a fire I could not see, smell, or feel. Dark runes found their way to my crown, as always, and I found myself rejuvenated but with a small, nagging feeling that I was actually exhausted. This night or this day, soot and blood colored my brow. It made me recall my apparent origin story: how my mother did not birth me from her womb, but instead used the hollowed bones and hearts of doves, her own blood, and the most potent sprigs of hemlock. I was made by the materials of softness and devastation, but she insisted I was created in purest form. In essence of her… a piece of herself.

For all my life, I was blind to the world as the world was blind to me. It had never occurred to me before how dark and quiet my state of existence was until I began to dream, and in my dreams I saw visions of monsters and flowers. And among them, my mother adorned a veil of spider webs.

I never felt the creases and hollows of her face in my infancy, and of course I never saw her the way many others see, but I knew her all the same. She called to me every night, and her somber lullabies coaxed me to sleep, and in my unconscious mind I bore witness to a forest of bone and ash; a living breathing thing lacking vibrancy and color. The evergreens were far from their deep green and every crow, rabbit, deer, and raven was pallid, as though drained of life and left to wander with their carcasses alone. Even those who traveled in throngs, herds, or packs, seemed isolated from one another and unaware of each others’ presence. But every single one of them was beautiful in their alienation as they wandered through trees as I did, alone. Though unlike me, their essences shimmered like fresh fallen snow under the light of the sun or the moon. Two eternal partners, of which, did not live here. A place so far from both the sun and moon could not be anything but a dream.

I walk on flowers. I tread through their stems and their petals tickle and coat my legs in pollen as if they wished to drain me of color as well. I wondered if herbivores grazed these meadows and took from them, and then in turn the carnivores and scavengers devoured them not long after, and their own colors vanished. And if so, where did all the color end up? I felt I had my answer but I did not risk replying to myself yet. I continued my venture through the flowers, multi-headed, shape shifting, swelling and sinking. My feet covered with the earth, though I could not feel any traces of the ground at all.

And lo, I saw my mother, veiled and slight, but so tall and imposing. She was among the flowers as she always was, and in her presence I felt the unseen monsters feel slighted by such power and fade away, back into the trees. Arms opened wide to me, my legs moved on their own, and any semblance of caution or fear that bubbled up in my throat conquered by an unknown numbing agent. I felt her arms embrace me, consume me. Her rib cage against mine felt like the teasing of teeth against my skin through my clothes, but I could not pull away. The trees around us a circle, the trees around us spun and spun and in the sky there was nothing, nothing at all. In her realm only, my mother was a god and one does not invite themselves into such an entity’s space. They must be beckoned; they must be summoned. I wondered not for the first time what sort of rituals my mother conducted to bring me here, or to keep such a dimension so well preserved and consistent. There was only birdsong when she willed it. The flowers knew no season or weather, and knew not what it was to be ripped from their roots. And certainly, things such as wolves were forbidden from the meadows. On occasion, I still found their footprints, testing the perimeters within the bounds of the thick, dark treeline.

My mother always used bone and cartilage to comb and brush my hair, and when she did, it rippled through many shades: gray, silver, white, dark purple, dark blue, shimmering gold. She cleansed my face with rosewater and readied my hands with soot from a fire I could not see, smell, or feel. Dark runes found their way to my crown, as always, and I found myself rejuvenated but with a small, nagging feeling that I was actually exhausted. This night or this day, soot and blood colored my brow. It made me recall my origin: how my mother did not birth me from her womb, but instead used the hollowed bones and hearts of doves, her own blood, and the most potent sprigs of hemlock. I was made by the materials of softness and devastation, but she insisted I was created in purest form. In essence of her… a piece of herself.

I never know when I leave the dream. I imagine a scenario where I am led back through the woods, decorated in my circlet of cinder and vitae. Where I am lead by a procession of deer with my hands on their backs, and as my sight fades, ravens soar above my head clear a path. Where they lead me I know not, but I’m certain there is a door or a hollowed tree somewhere in this realm where I am allowed to come and go, but not of my own volition. And whenever I awake, I lie numb and heavy in my bed, my arms and legs disconnected from my mind and my might. I am only able to turn my head and see my veiled mother curled up in my bedroom doorway on the floor, holding back the occasional stifled sob, until her image recoils and fades from the rays of the morning sun.