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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    break these bones until they're better; nikolaus
    #1

    She blames the time lost on relearning her body. On wooden legs that feel stiff and unsteady, unwilling to bend even as she drops her gaze to watch them do so. She blames it on the way her skin is not skin at all, the way it chaffes and peels back, the way she misses being beautiful. Is that a shallow thing to miss? It might be, likely is. But she never learned how to be different, how to accept that. Even now it feels like a struggle, even though she no longer sees a stranger when she gazes down at her reflection.

    It has been so easy to hide away in the garden built for her by her mother. To lose herself in the pathways that wind like a beautiful maze. She learned all the best places to hide herself away, learned to listen for the sound of voices coming nearing so that she might be able to disappear before curious eyes can find her and wonder not who she is, but what.

    Maybe that is the heart of all this quiet agony in her chest, a poisonous sneaking suspicion that she is no longer a who, but a what.

    Like the trees and the flowers that just always are, just always exist. Lacking thought or feeling or any kind of understanding. Does she just exist now, like them? But she can feel the sentience of plants. The way they long for the sun when it dawns pink along the morning horizon, the way they wither when the days grow shorter and the cold creeps in to kiss them with lips of killing frost. But is that feeling or is it reflex? Surely she is more than that, right?

    But the doubt is harder to chase away when the only company she has wears her face in ripples across the surface of a quiet pond.

    It is some strangling mix of frustration and hopelessness that finally drives her from her secret garden.
    But it is instinct that delivers her to Loess.

    To Nikolaus.

    The night is a shroud around her, and it is so easy to blend with the trees when the sky is empty and starless, hidden by the billow of dark iron clouds. She stays close to the trees whenever she can, stays hidden in the tall grass and relies on the leaves and flowers and bark of her body to conceal her from those who find no rest in these twilight hours. She finds that she remembers how to get there, but not where to find him. Not where they played or talked. Some memories are like that though, caught still in a cobweb too far away for her to find them.

    So like a flower blooming shyly beneath the pastels of pink and gold and pale orange, she searches for the boy who is no longer a boy.

    No longer hers.

    linnea

    these wildfires grow and grow until a brand new world takes shape





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