#malmiq

The Twincest Ship of the Day is:

The scarlet perianth melded into visions of bracts bursting and spilling blood into a listless sea of red. This sea pulsed from beneath her, the threat of drowning into rot from which there is no return. The sense of a second presence then called from above, as if applying pressure down against this sea, suspending her in between. Her head compressed between the two. No matter how many times she dreamt her skull crumbling and eyes popping, it always sent her into the same panic. The panic would not bring her into waking. It would last, linger as barbed vines forked her veins until giving way to the pain that signaled the call of day.

She dragged her arm across the bedsheets, breathing softly. It was silent. Morning light streamed in through the open shutters, tinging her bedchamber gold. She moved to check the bandaging on her arm, how the rot there had progressed in the time she spent asleep. The splint was applied crooked and a loose strand of fabric dangled out along the edge of the wound, peeling back to reveal a tiny protrusion of red underneath. She lay there watching it, as if to catch its progression in the moments it didn't think she was looking. Like a tree that measures its life in centuries, the slow growth was always just beyond her capacity to detect. But she knew it would grow, as assured as the towering trunk that the tree becomes, outlasting her.

Sweat had soaked her neck. Her hair pulled off the pillow as she rose, each muscle in her body releasing from atrophy. Before her, specks of pollen floated in the sunlight, rising and falling in delicate motions, scenting the room with their fragrance. She watched them, their innocent movements briefly visiting her from the gardens in the city below. Tears began at her eyes before sudden pain stung from within and she squeezed her eyelids shut. There she returned to the blackness, counting seconds as the pain splayed out across her face. Moments later it vanished as quick as it appeared. She exhales and gently touches her remaining fingers to her skull, just above the eye socket. She pulls them back to stare at the blackened motes of flesh stuck to her fingertips.

She sat alone eating her breakfast. The hobbling servant slowly gathered the remnants of her meal and shuffled off. By now, this one too bore the rot on his skin. His wrappings were loose as well but he had not shown the motivation to secure them, not even for his own prolonging. His assignment was made in the absence of his predecessor, who had jumped from the balcony. This one cared so little, and what life he led before his service troubled her. It was a kind of punishment, to serve her. It was to be condemned, slowly executed. What had he done to bring himself to her presence? What sort of path had it been? The solemn quietude among all her staff spoke of tremendous resentment and deep regret. She tried to imagine herself as one of them, communing over their shared fate, as if she was not herself or herself was not her affliction.

As usual, the day had no schedule. It would not bring her farther than these few adjacent rooms that formed her chambers. Though she was supposedly allowed to travel freely throughout the capital, she knew her place was here, sequestered in isolation. She imagined the dread inspired by this corner of the palace, how they all feared and loathed her. Occasionally her worries were even proven true by the secret whispers she caught between her visitors. They called her a demon chained to a wall. A tumor upon the family. A failure of godhood. She never spoke out against it. She rarely ever spoke, except to him.

Thank you so much for the ask! Turns out I'm terrible at word limits, so this is above 250 but at least not double! Haha!  W. Waiting impatiently for something

... She’s late.

She’s never been late before.

As the moon continues to rise high in the sky over his little village – shimmering and vibrant and full and brilliant – the last bell chime of the hour rings out, as the tick of an imaginary clock keeps track of his footsteps, as he paces about in his cottage, mulling over on what to do.

The garden has been tended to, and won’t need looking after until morning; the flowers at his window sill are all fine, and blooming beautifully; the floor and walls are clean, the kitchen’s pots and pans are pot away, and his bedsheets are freshly laundered, with a small fire roaring in the fireplace. And should he decide to wander outside, at night, alone –

Oh, doubtless he’ll ever hear the end of it.

He glances over at his bookshelf, and picks a random title to reread; he supposes it doesn’t matter which, however short or how long; if he can just focus, the time will pass. But no matter how hard he tries to concentrate, how many times he tries to reread sentence after sentence, word after word – his gaze returns to the window, pausing at almost every half of a page. He sighs; he won’t make progress like this.

He closes the book, and puts it back. His mind drifts to his easel; he places a fresh canvas down, and organizes all of his tools, his brushes, and paints. He can’t seem to settle in his stool for very long – fidgety every minute, recounting all the tubes of paint that he has. But every shade he sees in his hand is vermillion, just like the stands of her hair.

Where are you?

Has something happened?

He shakes his head, putting those thoughts away. No, he won’t bring about such misery in his life. She is fine. She will be fine. She is just late.

And just then, he hears a wolf howl, breaking him out of his thoughts. His brow furrows, as he goes to look out the window – only to see a familiar figure walking up the pathway to his house.

And though he knows she has asked him not to do it –