"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
11-07-2015, 01:32 AM (This post was last modified: 11-07-2015, 01:38 AM by Kavi.)
Do you believe you're missin' out?
That everything good is happening somewhere else?
The outside? I don’t recall of such a place. My realms consist of the fire and of night (and when seldom I sleep, these follow me). The seams of my existence lilt between ‘before’ and ‘after’: before Rodrik ruling, before my parent’s death, before Pomona; after Straia taking over, after my parent’s death, after Bergamot, and after the fire. After the tree.
The amber of my eyes have aged alongside my body, the soot of my muzzle decaying to wind-strewn ash. Interruptions of my meditations are scarce, for I have grown into the flames and away from the land. Loyal to a fault, forever Chamber-lain; in the sunset of my life I succumb to the ease of the heat, forgetting my duties and my family. So easy is it to wallow in the ‘before’ and ‘after’ of the fire that remembering the ‘now’ simply ceases to matter.
Having always believed in a greater power, I cannot deny that the tree represents to me a glimpse into Her understanding. The fascination of delving into what may be and what may have been only goads me further, encouraging my rapt meditations. Seeking answers has become my one purpose these days – weeks [months] are spent memorizing the patterns. And while perhaps unofficially, I have become the Chamber’s priest… Unfortunately, the members of the kingdom have a hard time of wrestling me away from Her flames in order to learn anything of importance.
Thus is the way of the tree.
When my eyes fall away from the majesty of the fire, I am not certain whether it is a dream or reality; sleep and wakefulness have melded into one, and in neither do I glance away. The severe burning along the surface of my eyes keep me from returning to my meditative stance, despite my anguished attempts. For a moment I believe She is punishing me; then I realize she might simply be pushing me towards the ‘now.’
Slinking away from the flames with a silent flash of my coat (pine and cobblestone, a lovely camouflage), I flinch when a ray of sun befalls me. I forgot about the day time… Arabic head swinging like a pendulum, I attempt to rid myself of the increasing sickness in my gut. How long have I stood at the tree?
Warring within myself as to whether I ought to obey the Lady or return to her eye, my teeth audibly grind until, at last, I release the tension. Unfurling the wings of my youth, my sturdy legs pick up to a gallop, and in the wind against my cheekbones and the sun reflecting off of my illusionist skin, I find undeniable comfort. A vibrant whinny splits the silence of the Chamber as I at last blast through its borders, sending a dozen ravens aflight. I laugh; the sound is richer than I remembered it to be. Like a grandfather’s.
As I come just beyond the Chamber, my knees begin aching. Frowning, a cough decorates my rapid breathing. Slowly to a walk, coughs begin wracking my unused chest. Head curling towards my barrel in an effort to stench the coughing, I realize how thin I’ve become. My shoulders dive precariously towards my spine, and my hips have begun peeking out from my skin. Highly uncomfortable with my aging, decaying body, I focus on my destination at a slightly more comfortable pace.
Having snatched a few well-needed bites along the way, I arrive to the meadow as the sun creeps towards the horizon. My knees feel better for having gone more slowly, and only occasionally must I clear my throat. Pleased with this turn of events (though I must admit to purposefully blocking any thoughts of the fire), I lower my chiseled head and begin grazing. Upon my golden coat, the image of my mother frisks here and there, a memory of her and I playing chase when I was young. I smile; the ‘before’ has always been my favourite.
they all need something to hold on to, they all mean well
pay your respects to society giving me hell
They come to the meadow, their figures drenched in the golden light of a dying sun. Together they have seen many suns die, and together they have watched them rise again. In truth, they should not look as they do – their bodies youthful and strong, untouched by the years they have lived. Long ago, they had been born to a maiden and a monster. And that is how they discovered that even scars fade after a time. But memories? Those, they keep – locked away behind her almond eyes; quietly treasured within his dark gaze.
She walks just ahead of him, hips swaying in the dusky glow. There is silence between them as they move through the grass. Nao feels bored, restless. Their return to Beqanna was nothing more than an annoyance to the chestnut mare. To Ikaro, it was something more. The sooty stallion had a gentleness to him that had long since disappeared in Nao – and though she would not say as much aloud, he knew that his sister believed it to be his greatest shortcoming.
After all they’d survived together, he could not blame her.
With no more than a glance, they nearly pass the old buckskin by – until Nao sees his skin change. It is mere curiosity that stays her at first, rare as it was to witness a gift such as his. The stallion himself is less than remarkable (old bones, old smile) so she observes the images that play upon his skin instead. There was something strangely familiar about the illustrations. Ikaro, too, sees the images – and then, abruptly, he halts.
Noticing her brother’s reaction, Nao looks again. This time, she sees past the leopard markings. Past her own denial. Her ears dive backward, disappearing in the flaxen of her mane for a moment before her expression changes. The slender chestnut comes alongside the aging illusionist, almond eyes flashing. “Was she a lover of yours, then?” Behind her, Ikaro flinches. Nao only smiles, bright and easy – casual, even – though her tail snaps sharply about the curve of her hips.
nao § ikaro you could never feel my story, it's all you know
i will not fold, she's in control of everyone and everything
Do you believe you're missin' out?
That everything good is happening somewhere else?
An infinity of resurrected suns is not my fate; though suns my rise at will upon my skin, each one as individual as the ones in the sky, I am doomed to an End. Most everyone is, I muse; immortal or no, the End shall come. I muse too that perhaps She will bring it, though the flames begrudge me nothing on the matter. At the day’s end, I am at peace with the matter; my End will be as it will be, and I will not concern myself with the matter.
Interrupted from my meditations, a flyaway young woman and her accompanying man broach my personal space. Straightening out of the grasses, I go to swallow as her words befall me; appalled, I choke softly on my mouthful. Managing to conceal the choke as an old-man's cough and a hasty swallow, I shake my head while clearing my throat, a rather flummoxed smile waxing upon my lips.
“Well child, I did love my mother, but I most certainly did not love her.” For a split second my thoughts travel to the Amazons, the kingdom which holds my lover and soulmate (how coincidental that my sweetheart abides in my birth-home, though let's not mention that now). I wonder momentarily how she is, and how our child is; both Pomona and Bergamot have disappeared, and my heart aches to see them once more... Alas, I must stay my pensive brooding for now.
“Humph…” Regarding the flaxen with an uncertain chuckle, I glance for a moment to the stallion before returning my amber gaze boldly to her. Only her. Raising my brow skeptically, I ask, “Were you a lover of hers?”
Now that would be... something. It would definitely be something.
they all need something to hold on to, they all mean well
pay your respects to society giving me hell
A dark cloud passes over her expression as Nao regards the old buckskin, steel and flint sharpening her gaze until her stare nearly pierces right through him. “How darling,” she remarks all too sweetly, a smile on her lips that never reaches the almond of her eyes, “to have such a doting son.” Ikaro comes up beside her, the warm dapples of his bay coat deepening as they catch the wayward light. She glances to him with a barbed look – the brother who might have been a doting son, too – if only he’d had a mother to dote upon.
The old stallion asks his own question then, and Nao laughs – a harsh sound. “Trust me, she’s not my type,” the chestnut responds with a flick of her tail. Abruptly, she veers aside and moves off without a backward glance. Ikaro watches her lower her delicate head to begin grazing some yards away – as though she had not just happened upon a brother they’d never known. “Please, excuse my sister,” Ikaro says after a moment, a husk to his low voice as he turns to address the aged illusionist.
Perhaps the buckskin would find the silence that follows uncomfortably long as Ikaro looks at him (at the leopard-marked mare dancing upon his skin). There is a strange intensity in the dark of his gaze, a twinge deep in his belly. His sister may want nothing to do with this – (with a mother who had abandoned them) – but it was different for him. “My name is Ikaro,” he starts at last. “That was Nao. As for your mother, if I'm not mistaken...” And he knows that she is gone – not only by the years that have aged her son, but by the images he portrays of her. It is obvious to him that they are a remembrance. A tribute. He clears his throat, light and shadow in his dark eyes. “Her name was Kagerou?”
nao § ikaro you could never feel my story, it's all you know
i will not fold, she's in control of everyone and everything
Do you believe you're missin' out?
That everything good is happening somewhere else?
Being the old fellow I am, I easily recognize the child’s passive aggression; bladed gaze, honeyed voice. Her execution of the behavior is admirable, I’ll give her that much. Staying the urge to roll my eyes towards her general existence, I simply smile in return, watching the stallion approach as an excuse not to reply. The gentle glisten of his dapples intrigue me, leading me to subtly replicate them on my own skin, in my own colour-tone. Innocently twisting to scratch my elbow as the girl laughs (a sound much like hooves clattering against stone), I admire my handiwork before returning to the conversation.
Age doesn’t decrease vanity, I almost tell her; I remind myself that would be the most out of place statement, and wonder momentarily for my mental state. God.
Smacking my lifts very softly as the flyaway woman retreats, I turn my gaze to the boy, finding myself bored with the whole situation. Old men shouldn’t have to handle the fits of teenagehood. Still, I nod kindly to the boy’s apology. “We all have our days.”
The silence enwraps us then, and I don’t begrudge it. The dapple’s staring does cause his skin to twitch, distorting the image of Kagerou and my imaginary dapples. As Ikaro finally brings calm to the chaos of our silence, I tilt my head slightly, finding myself becoming more curious as to the whole ordeal, strangeness and all.
“That’s correct,” I say huskily, much as Kagerou might have. “Did you have the pleasure of knowing her?” My gut twists, my heart aches, and suddenly my eyes glaze over. It happens so damn quickly. I toss my head, breaking our eye contact. “Sorry, sport. You hit my soft spot.” Staring into the distance in an attempt to empty my eyes of their burden, I open my mouth to speak but find myself at a loss. Instead of continuing the gentleman ought to, I drop the thread of conversation clumsily; an old man with no coordination.
