isolt marcello

I'm more alive than I've ever been

"It isn't impossible," she states simply, though the conviction that should have bolstered the affirmation was sorely lacking in the face of her Maker's presumably ironclad assumption that her progeny was, somehow, misleading her. What Isolt would have stood to gain from something so assuredly foolish could not be rightly said. A painful strand of barbed wire draws itself taut about the stilled lump of her heart as the domineering French woman strikes pointedly at all of the very most tender parts of Isolt's heart- those considerations so harrowing that she had refused to discuss them even with her mate. The thoughts that gnawed at her insecurities as rats upon open wounds. It might have proven impressive were it in the redheaded woman's nature to be compelled by such barbarity. Hundreds of years had honed this predator, soured her heart and filled it with rot- the soil of her soul had been salted, and not even the seed of a mother's sorrow could place roots there. What, or who, had eradicated her compassion so completely? Was it possible that she had always been this way?

"She... she wasn't Damon's. Not biologically," she adds as though it might somehow absorb some of the acidic sting from the accompanying words. It does not. She hadn't been Damon's... not in the manner that both of them had wished with such fervor that she had been. She had not been of his flesh, of his blood. Something else, something unseen and hardly understood, had brought about the presumed miracle of Isolt's pregnancy. It had been a matter barely addressed betwixt the two vampires, a fly in the otherwise delectable milk of the euphoria of their impending parenthood. Biology had hardly mattered to the redheaded woman but, she had wondered endlessly, how much had it mattered to her lover? What strain had been pressed against the ties that had bound him to their child?

"Not all of them. Not the ones that I want." Her conviction in this is greater still, the searing desire to eliminate the two practitioners she seeks greater than her trepidation at being in the presence of her waking demon in these moments. Such was her confidence, her determination, to severe the head of this snake so as to dissolve the body entirely. Were she to know success in this undertaking, it would guarantee the death of the New Eden and perhaps, in some small measure, she could find the rest that she so sorely required. Maybe then could she traverse the few tentative steps onwards into whatever future lay ahead of her.

"In every way that I possibly can." The syllables are weighty, their heft a tangible thing as they skate against the curve of her tongue. She would not admit it aloud, not to this diabolical levithan, but Isolt had fantasized quite frequently in recent weeks of all manner of ways that she might bestow the comeuppance that was so unequivocally deserved. Had she the ability to dream, she would have dreamt the most gruesome things. But these considerations are neither here nor there, for the final blow delivered by her Maker is grisly, her aim practiced and her poise absolute. This was, perhaps, the greatest fear of all of those that the fire-crowned woman had encountered. "She was mine. I carried her." There was little else that she found herself capable of imparting upon the dark-haired woman who loomed over her as a cat poised above wounded vermin. Weary of any further questioning regarding the validity of her connection to the child that had been taken from her, Isolt humbles herself still further into the sprawling shadow of this mightier foe.

"Will you help me... please?"