"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
All things are possible, even the worst of things.
He is tired beyond measure, bloody and broken by trials no horse should have to endure. He does not even notice at first when she comes, when she releases him from his torment. He cannot even bring himself to care, not until he lands in a crumpled heap upon the lushly green spring grass of the meadow.
At first he thinks that this must be another one of her tricks, an attempt to jolt him into complying with her demands. But as the mire in his mind slowly clears, he realizes he is back in a familiar form, back in his own body. For a long moment he can only stare at the long black legs resting in a rather awkward fashion before him. And then it hits him that he is back, that his large, well defined body is his own pewter and black, with four legs instead of two, and the incongruous lack of tail to set off the whole, crumpled picture.
He doesn’t rise immediately. He is too exhausted. And though he is no longer covered in blood, though tear tracks no longer stain his cheeks, he still feels as though he is. The memories are too recent, too fresh.
And then, as though a wrecking ball has come from the sky to wallop him in the belly, the truth of his actions hits him. He scrambles to his feet, nearly falling flat on his face as he attempts to readjust to a different body. He glances wildly around, brown eyes wide and feral.
He remembers. Oh god, he remembers all too well. The blood and the death. The death he had caused, had delivered so willingly and mercilessly. A low, keening sound escapes him as he scrambles backwards, not stopping until he rams heavily into a large tree. Tears fall unbidden from his eyes, etching new tracks on his cheeks. He does not notice, nor does he care. The terrible guilt is overwhelming, too much to bear in the face of so many wretched memories.
And in his blind grief, he does not notice the way the shadows have begun writhe, crawling to him, snaking up his legs and caressing his belly as a lover might. He does not notice the way in which they react to the storm of emotions pouring through him, coming forward in his unwitting plea for aid.
11-08-2015, 10:26 AM (This post was last modified: 11-08-2015, 10:27 AM by Sarkis.)
i don't dance, don't ask......i'll be over here, oh here..
Her world had slumbered for so long now it seems. Turning grey, drab, where once it had shone with a kaleidoscope of colors. Before everything had changed she had been filled with a dramatic sense of wonder.
She's grown in that time, no longer an awkward gangling young girl, but still her body is not blessed with the curves of a woman. Not yet. She’s also experienced a few misfortunes in her young life, the biggest and most influential- the death of her parents. The source of the black pit that had grown inside her stomach, had left her feeling so empty and alone.
In attempt to find her light again, to rid herself of the simmering darkness, she went out to the meadows. She explored the Jungle again. She smiled.
A graceful, warm emotion traced along her velvet lips. Sunshine cascaded from the skies, dripping onto her roan backside, warming her skin. The Meadow is as lovely as it ever was. Already fresh, green, grass spills into acres and acres of fields. Wildflowers blossom in precarious clusters, with no set pattern or placement. It truly is a beautiful day. This is why she looks curiously at the hurting roan male, and not with the face of recognition or concern a sister should have.
She knows of her siblings, most of them, and still she wouldn't recognize most even if she was staring them straight in the face. Another sad fact of life for the ex-princess. She approaches him without hesitation, his sullen, tear streaked face taking away any appearance of intimidation he might usually hold. Her hazel eyes are careful, yet still filled with concern and hope somehow. “Sorry..” She trails off, accenting the pause of silence to follow. “Are you okay?” She dips her head, trying to look at his eyes, the windows that would reveal his sorrows.
All things are possible, even the worst of things.
He doesn’t notice her at first, so caught up in his own grief and horror that the outside world has little meaning, makes little sense. No sound escapes, not even a sob, as tears slide unbidden down his cheeks, the salty droplets falling unnoticed to the earth. The shadows climb higher on his body, creeping up his legs until they slowly consume his torso, covering his barrel, his chest, and finally his neck in an unrelieved blackness that seems to dance in the bright, warm day.
He only realizes he has company when she speaks, asking if he is okay. No. No he’s not. But he doesn’t say this, doesn’t say a word actually. No yet. His brown eyes are unfocused as the turn to her, and in that face he sees a resemblance. In his unguarded and unfocused state, another face is imposed over hers, one very similar and yet so vastly different.
Ma?
The word escapes his lips on a croak. He recoils, afraid that she still hates him, still blames him for his failures (as she should). But then his eyes focus and it is not his mother that stands before him, but a young roan mare with only the vaguest of resemblances.
He slumps in relief, in absolute dejection. No, it is not his mother there, but someone else entirely. Someone he should know but does not. Someone he had failed so completely that it had risen up to haunt him in his darkest hours, to torment him with his inadequacies.
And finally he answers her question, large head drooping low, eyes closed so that he might block out the sight of her.
No.
He is not okay. He is not sure if he will ever be okay.
i don't dance, don't ask......i'll be over here, oh here..
It's then that she notices the darkness consuming him. Wisps of shadow clamber up his legs and she takes a step back. Ma? he says at first, and the words cause a pang in her chest. A moment where it feels like a beat is missed, threatening to claim her to the dark side again. Gulping, Sarkis squeezes tight her eyes, taking deep breathes to soothe herself,-her soul. Whispers pass her whiskers, in soft cooing tones, "One......two...three.." She's counting, slowly, steadily. She will do so until the pain passes, until her heart doesn't feel so tight in her breast.
Reaching ten she lets out one long exhale of breath, opening her hazel eyes to look at the man in front of her. "I'm sorry, no, I'm no ones mother." She offers him an apologetic, closed mouth smile. Again her eyes fall to the ground, to the rising shadows at his cannons. He answers then, a dejected no.
She doesn't know him, but she does feel sorry for him. What terrible thing had happened to make him so sorrowful? Sarkis herself had seen some rough times, was still getting over the bad and trying to let in the good. "What's, um, what's on your legs? Is it hurting you?" Simple enough questions, a veil of concern wraps itself around her features. "Do you want to talk about it? Do you just want to talk?" Speaking is like breathing for the young roan, of late she hadn't done it so often, but she is sure she could now. If it would help, she imagined she had looked very much the same lately. Forlorn and broken, detached.
"I'm Sarkis by the way," A timid relinquish of her name, the one her dam had spoken, brushing her lips across her forehead. That seemed so very long ago now.
All things are possible, even the worst of things.
Sometimes he wonders if there is anything good left in the world. In him. He knows that there must be, but at this moment in time, he cannot seem to find it. Darkness swirls in his mind just as it tangles about his legs, a writhing, aching hollow that seems to torment him with his past misdeeds. With the terrible things he knows will yet come. He doesn’t know what it will be. He simply knows that this is not the end. Even death, he knows, is not the end.
He doesn’t notice at first that she seems to be battling back pain of her own. That she must count to maintain her composure. Normally, he might have asked her what is wrong, might have offered his support, a shoulder to cry on. But in his misery, he is wholly selfish. He asks no questions, only stares at her with hollow eyes. Eyes too lost in their own despair to even contemplate hers.
She is not his mother. Of course she isn’t. A momentary madness had prompted him to see her face where it is most certainly not. He doesn’t realize, not yet. Doesn’t realize that the resemblance is real, that the pieces of Scorch he had erroneously (or so he thought) seen in her face are actually there. But he is not left even that solace for long.
She tries to be kind, to help him in the best way she knows how. He can appreciate that. Or he could have, at one time. At her questions, he shakes his head in confusion. His head drops, tipping slightly so that he can find that which she speaks of. He eyes widen slightly in alarm as a huff of breath escapes his lungs. Suddenly and violently, he stomps his feet, trying to rid himself of the dark blotches clinging to his skin. To his surprise, the shadows retreat, slithering from neck and barrel and leg until nothing remains but the shadow his body casts.
I don’t… I don’t know.
When the words finally come out, they are as confused as she must be. He wonders for a moment if she thinks him crazy. But then her final words register, her name sinks in. His head whips up as his watery brown eyes fix on her. He feels as if he has been kicked in the stomach, the breath leaving his chest on a sharp exhale. When he speaks again, the word escapes on a wheeze.
Sarkis?
He shakes his head, trying to dispel her image. But he can’t, she is standing right there in front of him. He sees it now. The similarities he was trying to ignore before.
No. No, no. Oh god…
He blinks back tears, more of them threatening to fall.
i don't dance, don't ask......i'll be over here, oh here..
She stays because she is curious, she stays because she is afraid to leave. He stomps his feet, sending the black threads away, they drift back into the earth from where they seem to emerge. Her nostrils flare wide at this because he was not aware of them before. They are an foreign substance, creeping up him without knowledge. She steps back, placing distance between them, not wanting the darkness to cling to her instead. What would she do if it did? Would she be able to free herself from it so easily? She thought not, and she didn't want to try either.
I dont know. She doesn't understand, looking from his legs back up to his confused face. Don't know? Her hazel eyes find him looking unsure at what was happening, as though he had never seen the shadows crawl over him before. The thought sets her at unease, making her skin crawl with tingles. Have phantom shadows just suddenly appear, rise up your legs, that was an uncomfortable thought. A bad omen if she ever thought to see one.
He is apologizing then, her name striking dissonance to his ears it seems. His eyes bore into her, trying to penetrate her being as though she is not real, as if she is not actually there. The atonement that leaves him is strained, hissing from him on too little breath. A toss of his head, staring and acknowledging that she is substantial. God..sorry, So sorry.. Soon she is apologizing herself.
"No, no that's okay. You didn't mean to call me Ma, I understand, I really do. You have nothing to apologize for, it's me, I should say sorry. I shouldn't be walking up on strangers like that." She tries to assure him, a settling tone takes her as his eyes glisten. "Really, no harm done. It - It looks like you could use a friend. Got quite the circumstance there with your legs, um- the shadow. That- that would make anyone worried and- and say things they don't realize." She hopes she is coming across sincere, she was really trying after all. She just didn't know how to help the poor guy, and of magic she knew little. Of the darkness that he had sent into the earth, she knew even less. "Let's- Let's start over okay? So, what's your name?" She flicks her tail, hoping they can just clear their plate. Start over and that will make it all better right?
All things are possible, even the worst of things.
It feels foreign, yet so incredibly right, those shadows. They shift and crawl, clinging to him like brambles. They are familiar, yet not, a substance he had always been meant to wield, but fate had only seen fit to grant it to him now. Now, in his darkest hour, when his soul had been stained black by murder, he had been granted the terrible solace of darkness and shadow.
She is right to be afraid. He is afraid. The shadows are new and foreign (but then, they are so old and familiar too). He doesn’t know their strength. He doesn’t know his own strength.
He apologizes to her because he cannot help himself. He had failed her. He had failed her so badly, and she does not even know. She does not even know him well enough to know. That simple truth shines a cold, unfeeling light on just how badly he had failed.
The thought startles a strangled laugh from him. There is no humor in that laugh, only disbelief and self-recrimination. Would she know once he told her his name? Would she understand then?
She must, for he cannot believe that his (their) mother would have failed in informing her of her siblings. Would she hate him for it? Surely, she would. He hates himself for it (and for so many other things, but that most of all).
No, I…
He starts, but he stops again, his breath shuddering in his lungs as he tries to steady himself. As he prepares to tell her the truth. Prepares to give her a thousand reasons (though in truth she needs only the one) to hate him.
But maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t hate him. Maybe she would only be disappointed. He can handle disappointment. He’s had so much practice at it.
Shahrizai.
He whispers his name, almost like a talisman that might ward him against her disappointment. Except that it is the thing that would cause it. He can’t even meet her eyes when he says it. He doesn’t want to see the look that will enter that hazel gaze once comprehension sinks in.
i don't dance, don't ask......i'll be over here, oh here..
She rambles, spouting words out like a river with no dam, every flowing. Lucky enough that they make a lick of sense, even if she is out of breath from her swift sentences. The poor guy, he was kind enough to stay, to receive her rushed narration. Anyone else would have quickly been on their way, urgent business, places to be. She would have smiled at that if it were not for his somber disposition. Something bad must have happened to him, something very bad.
When he speaks he breaks, not only literally but figuratively. Each word seems so hurt, so broken and unsure. But why? She's just a young girl, no one ever payed much mind to what they said in front of her. No one took care.
He might as well have struck her, his whisper hits her like a fist in the gut. Her hazel colored eyes bulge before they fill with tears. He face takes on the appearance of one sucker punched, surprised and injured all at once. Even her mouth falls open, the breath that had flown from her chest had parted them so easily. Throwing them wide enough to gasp in reaction to that name, his name. They had all been whispered to her once upon a time, the names of her siblings whose faces she can not recall.
Perhaps she is still so very much a child, she thrusts her head into his chest, sobbing like a school-girl. She could not believe they were so close now, that without looking she had found a piece of them here in the meadow. It's practically unintelligible but she chokes on words and tears both. "I miss them." It's agonizing understanding his confusion, its painful what the mistake had meant, a resemblance even one so small.
"Where did you go?" She sniffles, face planted into the safety of his sternum.
All things are possible, even the worst of things.
While words fall from her lips with little heed, his own sentences seem to get stuck against his tongue. There is so much he wishes to tell her, so many things he longs to say. Explanations to give and excuses to sway her forgiveness. But none of them come, caught in his throat, barbed lies that refuse to be spilled. He can only manage a few shaky, stuttered words forced passed a throat sliced raw by emotion while his head hangs in unendurable shame.
His name hangs in the air for an interminable moment while comprehension sinks in. He doesn’t need to see her to hear the gasp that sounds. That small, almost insignificant sound slices at him like a whip, a cat o’ nine tails that flays him alive. He flinches reflexively, wincing at the quiet sound that rings too loudly in his ears.
And then she all but dives at him and he jerks back involuntarily, forgetting for a moment that he is butted against a tree and has nowhere to go, bewilderment and resignation suffusing his features. But she does not snap at him with sharpened teeth as their mother had done in that awful place, does not beat at him with unforgiving hooves. Instead she curls into his broad chest even as sobs wrack her roan frame.
Is stands unnaturally still for a long heartbeat, uncertainty and shared grief warring within his breast. In the end, the grief wins out, the softer part of him that wishes to return her embrace. Even as her broken words fill his ears, he drops his head over her, pressing his muzzle against neck, pressing her closer to him. The shadows are there too, responding to his needs, his grief, blanketing them in their cool, comforting embrace even without his knowledge or realization.
I miss them too.
He whispers the words to her, an acknowledgement and shared understanding of her soul-deep grief. The moment continues in heavy silence until her sobs slow to sniffles and her unexpected (though in truth it should not have been) question breaks the quiet. He stills for a moment, frozen in remembered horror. It is not an experience he would wish to inflict upon anyone, much less his younger sister. When finally he does answer, the words escape him on a halting breath.
