"And like any artist with no art form, she became dangerous."
g l e n n a
BLACK HONEY
She had been born far away under a blood moon. Wrapped in sweet clover and honeysuckle, her mane twisted with wild roses. Bees had lived in her forelock, their sweet noises her lullaby. Glenna recalls her childhood happily, those stolen years raised by the sisterhood. Her roots had grown heavy, deep, planted in soil ripe with the understanding of things unseen--her mother had the blue eye, too. Her mother, she thinks it was her mother, had told her she, too, could see the hand of Death.
And Glenna hadn't forgotten.
Perhaps that was what had pulled her from her home. From the quiet coves where she had grown up. It had felt like a prick, then a tickle, then yearning so strong it had made her sick. Glenna knew something was waiting for her out there, beyond the pink sunset and dewy meadows where she spent all her time. For a year she wandered alone and then came Ember, her companion. The only living thing she had met who stifled the yearning in her spirit, if only a small bit.
Their friend was easy and light, Glenna was glad to not be entirely alone. They would travel on together, both following a strange sort of sensation building up inside. And then, after all their time, something shifted.
Like locks clicking into place. Glenna sighed, her long forelock covering her eyes. She sniffed the air keeping one ear on Ember and the other listening--wondering. "I feel it," she said and shook out her mane, "or rather, I don't feel anything anymore. The itch has been scratched though, I still feel ...."
"I don't know," she paused then and looked behind them, around them, "like we're waiting for someone else."