Nestling her gilded mane of hair into Cordelia's shoulder, Misty's eyes fall closed in a stupor. Her rhythmic breathing grazes against Cordelia's skin, sullen strings rejoicing at their union and bristling occasionally as the tape from which they play revolves, unchanging, in the corner of the shack. Cordelia's eyes fix upon the messy ruin of the wall opposite as her body relaxes against the undulating song of the cicadas in the swamp.
"Ain't it beautiful?" Misty whispers. Her unfathomable eyes rise, a mess of desire, to observe Cordelia who nods silently in response.
"I can show 'em to you." She is already scrambling over Cordelia's body towards the doorway, snatching up her hand eagerly. "Quick. They're like gems if you catch 'em at dawn." She leaps forwards, disturbed only as Delia's hand slips from her grasp. Misty shoots her a confused gaze before lurching backwards suddenly, the dimming light enveloping her in the shadow of the doorway.
Breath hangs in Cordelia's throat as the dusky air appears to corrode the edges of Misty's skin. Her frame is disparate, alarm seeping from her eyes as her voice cowers behind her lips. Her eyes falter and a tempest divides her. Mist consumes the scraps of fabric barely clinging to her body, which now recedes viciously in a flood of discolouration. Cordelia flinches, fighting to uproot her body from the bed. She is powerless. A familiar feeling.
Misty's icy skin surrenders and is as dust. She is alone.
Her screams tear through the house like a blade through fabric. Imperatives agitate her expression as she steals herself from sleep.
Seconds later the air feels saturated only by the remnants of her terror. Panting noiselessly in the darkness, Cordelia searches desperately for affirmation from somewhere within herself. The emptiness surrounding her is constant, fears seeping from the crevices of her heart. Portraits of her ghostly consort loiter at the forefront of her mind.
"Te requiro".
She clutches at the delicate shawl wrapped around her shoulders. The warmth it provides her is hallucinogenic, grounding her with the composure she adapts daily as the new Supreme. With the slight wave of her finger, she lights the candles positioned on her dresser and slips out from under the bed sheets. Instinct draws her over to the table several steps from her bed where, resting precisely atop a sleek black shawl is an urn engraved with cursive, gold lettering.
'Misty Day', it writes.
With sobs barely audible, Cordelia picks up the sombre urn and clutches it to her chest. Closing her eyes, she begins to count as if searching for a core within her to root her to the ground.
All of a sudden, a wealth of sounds bombards her through the waning darkness. Upon opening her eyes she becomes aware of the soft earth beneath her feet; of the exhaustively ominous trees surrounding her; of the spiritual presence intangibly encircling her. As she clasps the urn in her hands, endless earthly images manifest themselves within her mind.
"Don't the cicadas sound beautiful?" Vibrancy clings to her face as she furrows through the mud, diligently harvesting it into a bucket.
Audacious foliage shapes the swamp she inhabits. Vines embrace branches, which simultaneously engage in static dance against the clear sky. Cypress trees stand guard; knees peeking out from below the shrouded waters, surveying her work.
"God's finest creation, don't you think? The light... it sits perfectly above the canopies." She points briskly upwards, eyes closed, absorbed in her own longing. She crouches to collect a water-filled bucket and returns to refresh the potted plants and shrubs ceremoniously gathered along the bank of the water.
A patch of interrupted grass lingers at the base of a nearby tree, acting as a passage for Misty walk through in order to reach the denser swamp land. Her solitary soul sings amid this spiritual haven, her integrity and compassion cooperating in accord with its overarching power.
"Doesn't the sound just grind into your soul?" Each leaf dripping from the cypress branches whispers to her, the buds of flowers fall in prayer to her authority.
A faint boom in the distance suddenly snatches away her attention. She turns her back further to the saline waters, stepping increasingly faster towards the deep foliage.
"No... This ain't right."
And the trees consume her as she departs.
Cordelia's eyes open boldly, her lips parted as the images resonating from the urn diffuse into the air. Misty's human breath is lost to it also; contained once more within the urn. A calm reassurance rests on Delia's shoulders as the light of dawn ascends over the tree tops.
"I have found you." She speaks with relief, even as her lover is captivated by the landscape and carried from it by the cosmic authority of the netherworlds.