And breathe me; any

[October]

This forest, a place that had not existed before, is so foreign. The air cuts her lungs little tiny shards of glass with every breath. How long had she been gone? Was this really even the place she had once called home? She feels so small, so lost. All these faces...they scare her. They do not resemble anything that she could ever recall. Nails pull her along the leaf littered paths that had been worn into the clay banks and soil. She walks without meeting the eye of any, black curtain of her hair lies listless to the side of her neck. The buckskin of her coat had darkened with the onset of autumn. With the climate change should have brought sleepy animals, scurrying creatures...and it had. October does now know why she is her. Had she experienced enough hurt already? Was her appetite not sated with a toxic concoction of abandonment, lies, and rejection?  No. Something insisted at scratching in the back of her mind. Tormenting the little slumber she got. (Beqanna, Beqanna, Beqanna)  It whispers with a honey tipped tongue, glossy lips pulled over stained yellow fangs.  Relentless.  Savage. But the day had come when she feels unearthed from her unearthly chamber, roots cinched and snipped. She moves without purpose or a destination. She only knows that she exists and someone out there was someone who had a purpose for her (though their intentions were not clear for she is not a future teller)  but if something so childish as hope still exited within the battered shes of her heart then so be it. It's all she had left. October

[Manhattan]

The forest was the ever stretching portion of this land that Manhattan had never seen, and yet he had always known was here. Unlike his parents, who had the abilities to see things past their own cognition, Manhattan had only what he had been born with, and with this, he was once again led away down from the mountains and back in the direction of the Meadow…
 
He had a gut feeling to follow. The blood in his ears pricked him and he had flexed his muscles, left Oakheart—his daughter--safely ensconced within the clutches of the Hidden Tundra.
 
He slid a hoof into the dirt, pulling his body through the trees as silent as a cat. He had all the balance and ability of someone much more than he, but this magician’s son was neither a wizard nor a muggle. He was a bitter man reaching out for something, trying to eke out a measure of success that has thus far eluded him in his many long years upon this earth. As the rotations around the sun began to stack against him, he found that he was neither experienced, nor wise.
 
He was just lost.
 
And so, as he continued to follow this gut feeling that he was missing something, Manhattan tossed back his fine head to look ahead to what was in front of him. He had slept little, and ate even less as his body had pounded the ground to bring him to this place. And yet, even with the sound that had drowned out his thoughts, he now found the silence of the wood deafening to him. What was he looking for?
 
The dark colored man broke through the underbrush, a cool feeling of regret and pure sadness rushing over his body as he heard the rustling of leaves just a little ways from where he was standing. It was then that he no longer had any doubts as to his gut reaction. He, the untraited son, had followed his senses to a place that he had known existed. She was here, and she was alive. And he had known it. He’d always known it.
 
Manhattan snorted and approached her, flicking his tail behind him as he looked to October, to see her frail, broken body and her shattered expression. His heart broke in that moment, and he found that he could not wait to re-introduce himself to her. He would have known her anywhere—and he was sure she would have known him in return.

He wrapped his head and neck around the gentle curve of her beautiful, slender back, his breath curling around her as he took in her scent. There was nothing he could say for what he had done to this poor, twisted creature that he now held, like a baby bird who had broken her wing. Nothing to fix the hurt, nothing to repair the damage. Nothing except the words “I’m so sorry, October.”
 

MANHATTAN

Baby, I'm from New York,
Concrete jungle where dreams are made of;
there's nothing you can't do.

[velis]

My figure bathed in the blackness that flourished in my beloved shadows; my limbs were merged into its sweet shade - my tread an apparition as I swam into the darkest depths. My claws procreated a noticeable sounds against the ground; my illusion deceived by the ignorance of my own being. I was not a creature that feared to be discovered, I simply had a distaste to mingle with the living that engrossed the plains of this specific territory. It was too habitual for me to bother with.

I grew tiresome of the aimless wander I had decided to wane the moments without my night; to resolve - I chose a direction quite different. I stopped.

Without movement my awe was able to capture everything that had moved, bled, and spoke. I could feel the dead and their chills that punctured, touched, and kissed the brisk of my blackly flesh.

There was a jarring feeling that floated over my aura; it was not the foul decay that split from the dialing pores of my corpse; nor the black tar that moderately wept with its blithely thickness ... it was something my eyes had clasped in a type of fascination. I could fathom two creatures move - both reflecting a color of flame, yet shrouded to a more dull ember. That was also quite deceiving - see, this flame grew as they had embraced into an adoration - I could not determine the fact. She could be vulnerable and be taken by the masculine; he who was the more profound spark that seemed to cover her.

I crept closer to the couple; my eyes fixated on the warmth of their togetherness; it was quite lovely and sweet - and odd how I patiently observed. I craved more of a physical understanding - yet something influenced me to stand this one out.

V E | I S

If you see a light at the end – it’s just the sun in your eyes.

[October]

The snorts of the dark stallion does not even stir the mare for she had been subjected to unimaginable things. Instead, she continues the slow gait whilst looking to the horizon of the golden eyed sun as it wept yellow, orange, and red as it set. Silently, she prays the sun will burn her up with the wink of it's light before evening but no, not today. He is moving quicker than October could possibly notice and he is wrapped around her and squeezing her and for a brief moment she wonders if it was a hostile male looking to lay a seed in her belly- but- No. It can't possibly be... The scent overwhelms her as her brain slogs and fights to understand. Like clawing through fog, she finally finds him. "Manhattan." The word is almost a croak as it has been so, so long. The buckskin woman can not help but to stumble slightly and fall against him. She was so tired (so impossibly tired) of the scrapes on her knees, the dullness of her skin, the tangles in her hair. She wants to feel the warmth of the sun again, feel the breeze on her face. Long lashes lift to meet his eyes like a lost child. They are wet and almost too large for the thinness in her face. Once she regains her footing, October attempts to offer him a smile after his apology. "It's ok, Manny, it's ok." The words are soft as she whispers them to him, attempting to comfort him in only a way she knew and to try and understand why he was apologizing. But... from the edge of her eye was a dark stallion. The buckskin woman balks backward a few paces to look to Manhattan as though this was some kind of trickery, some kind of game. Her face moves from the inky black of a hulking stallion within a thick tree clump of trunks to the cocoa painted one of Manhattan. "What is this?" The syllables work from her lips but only measure up to that of a low soprano. The fright thumps her heart hard in her chest as she looks to back away but fear has frozen the raven haired woman and her eyes grow wet with fear and confusion as to why this was all happening to her again. October

[Manhattan]

There are things little like love in this world. Breathing in the scent of a loved one who has been gone for a long time, imprinting them upon your mind, and within your heart. Being able to wrap them into your heart, and within your arms—a meeting of minds and hearts. There is little in this world like knowing you hold the heart of someone else in your hands, and that they hold yours in return. The careful balance of being able to juggle life, taking care to put this one person before yourself at the cost of your own happiness.
 
This is what Manhattan had remembered upon opening his nostrils and taking in what he could of October’s being, wrapping himself around her until they were of one flesh. He was within her, and she was within him. So entranced was he with the situation, the simple sake of having found a part of himself that he’d forgotten (nee—left behind all those years ago when he stole away in the middle of the night, never looking back to see what he was abandoning), that her breath against his shoulder barely registered through his newfound happiness peace. But register they did, and the malodorous scent of another was on the air.
 
What is this?-
 
Manhattan broke the embrace, pinned his ears to his skull and rotated around to see the intruder. His kind was unfamiliar to the liver chestnut stallion, but the stench of the dead was all over him, and that was a smell that as universal to plants as they were to man. Rotating his hips, Manhattan took a stance, swinging his tail over October’s back, and taking a paced step in front of her ever so slightly as to cover her exposed shoulder. This pose was as protective as it was ownership—this woman was his, and he would protect her… what was left of her.
 
He would help rebuilt that which he had destroyed. She would never know the pain of abandonment again.
 
Manhattan was agitated, and this was clear to the black stallion with the way he took his stance. He curled back his lips and bore his teeth at the stink of the grave, practically hissing at the intruder. “I do not know who you are, but if you are here for her, then you might want to turn around now.”
 
 

MANHATTAN

Baby, I'm from New York,
Concrete jungle where dreams are made of;
there's nothing you can't do.