The Lost Islands
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Making love to a m e m o r y
Posted on March 10, 2014 at 06:47:46 PM by Macabre




"If Love himself weep, shall not lovers weep,
learning from what sad cause he pours his tears?
Love hears his ladies crying their distress,
showing forth bitter sorrow through their eyes
because villainous Death has worked its cruel
destructive art upon a gentle heart,
and laid waste all that earth can find to praise
in a gracious lady, save her chastity."



The second swim, from the Crossing to Atantis,was more treacherous than the first. Macabre was uncertain at what point in the night she had decided that her destination had become the Ridge - that Midas, the palomino steed whom wooed her those years ago - was the one she was headed toward. With every burning exhale, and a growing numbness in her legs and chest as she paddled on, she forced herself to think of him, of his face, of the life she led underneath his care. She envisioned the final moments of the women she had seen killed by the hand of a stallion over and over again. It was them, their memories, that fueled her. Macabre was survivor, despite the weakness that crept into the back of her brain. Even now, as she struggled to paddle against the midnight lurching of the tides, her head occasionally failing to stay above the surface, she could hear the whispers. How easy it would be to just stop paddling. To give in for good this time, and slowly drift to the bottom of the sea. She wondered what it would feel like - being weightless - after taking that last breathe.

But she didn't give in. Coward, she cursed under her breath. Macabre continued to follow the brightly shining stars overhead to the east. It had been what felt like a lifetime since she'd last seen the ocean, strangely enough, despite her years of travel. She'd almost forgotten what the sea breeze felt like, the salty gusts whipping through her thin coat and causing the wispy strands of her unruly flaxen mane to dance about her topline. It was cold - perhaps too cold given the season - but the chilly winds felt fine against her face and neck. It kept her alert as she neared the dark mass of Atlantis in the night.

Cracked and dull hooves sunk deeper into the damp sand as she moved nearer to the shoreline. Chocolate-tipped twin audibles swiveled back and forth in response to the quiet edge of the Ridge as the ocean waters gently lapped at her ankles. Macabre was hardly the same she was when she first washed ashore on The Lost Islands. The timid, though polite mare that was gently wooed by the handsome palomino, was not the one who stood at the Falls today. She no longer believed the men who promised her protection, and her blood boiled under her skin when she thought of all the things she’d done in her past - every bit of herself she’d given up - for this hollow idea of safety. The whole concept was mere myth, something mothers told their daughters and actions loved ones thrusted upon each other to build some sort of false sense of reality. Hopeless, is what it was. So she fled, perhaps against her better judgment, from Midas and the islands, left to drift through the woods yet again. She stumbled on for a while until she found another man, one whom much like those that came before him, promised to keep her close, keep her safe, in return her for company. He too, would come to abuse her.

She'd heard the name Midas filter through the lips of strangers on the Crossing. That was enough to propel her to seek out the stallion for herself.




"Hear then how Love paid homeage to this lady;
I saw him weeping there in human form,
observing the stilled image of her grace;
and more than once he raised his eyes toward Heaven,
where that sweet soul already had its home,
which once, on earth, had worn enchanting flesh."

Macabre | 6 | Mare | Mustang X Morgan | 14.2 HH | flaxen chestnut | © Vinyl




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