"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
i don't need you to understand that i'm already saved.
She has descended into the shadows once more - she prefers the dim, dark rhythm of the night, in which she is unrestrained and able to move swiftly, yet the thick brush and tightly wound foliage of the forest is a beckoning mistress to her in the heat of the day.
Winter has begun to wane, and yet dusk surely approaching, its taut, icy chill remains. She savors this time of day, bathing in the pale but rich sunlight that peeks through the wavering, swaying branches above - the sun has begun to fall, and yet the vivid colors of sunset still weaves its way through the gaps above, cloaking her shining golden coat in its magenta light.
Her thick alabaster wings flex as she arrives at a small clearing, shaking her bristling feathers free of the sparse leaves and twigs that have found themselves tangled within them. With a long, dreary sigh, she has grown bored of her self-imposed isolation. She has spent many days and weeks kept to herself, mulling over what had once been hers, what never had been – and what never would. Her once frayed, broken heart no longer pined over a perceived love lost – time has its way of mending, and her once fragile heart (though nothing of her was truly ever fragile) was beginning to heal – marred with scar tissue unseen to the eye.
Then, she pauses - a shimmer of alabaster and obsidian catches her gaze from afar, rousing her curiosity. Her slender, curving body moves with effortless stealth that should not come so naturally to a creature so foreboding. She moves quietly beside her, with only a few spindly trees keeping them apart – but it is only so long before the stagnant silence is broken by the dull crunch of ice beneath her weight, and she is altogether revealed (remnants remaining from the most recent snowfall; kept intact by the dark canopy of the forest shielding it from the sunlight).
”Heartfire,” she murmurs breathily, a wry smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. A familiar face, with vivid, searing eyes of blue – meeting with her own simmering hazel stare. ”so far from home. What could possibly bring you here?”
A pause.
And then, with amusement laced in her tone, her words carefully dance with the image of Heartfire and Wyrm tucked away within the darkness of the thicket – with hushed voices; with a loveless tryst and its inevitable product – all for a price. She doubted either of them had ever known they were not alone that night – but the hills have eyes, and the walls can talk.
”Perhaps you’ve come to negotiate another piece of yourself in return for a favor?”
The forest is almost a second home to her, an escape from the mundane, the everyday life. The trees, somehow weighty and ancient despite their relative newness, are as familiar and comfortable as her own skin. She had long since memorized every groove and every limb (the better to find those she seeks, but that is almost secondary). So it should come as no surprise that she might be found within their dark and secretive depths. She often could be.
What does come as a surprise is the intrusion. Of course, she had not been paying any particular attention. Her focus had been distant, her mind far removed, contemplating the woes of life and all of its inevitable changes. All the ways it sought to thwart her.
And so, though her body is present, blue and white skin dappled in the dim light, her mind is not. At least, not until she hears the crunch of ice, the sound of her name on another's lips.
Her gaze turns to find a familiar gold and white form. Though they hardly know each other, she recognizes her with no difficulty. “Ellyse,” she responds, her tone neither welcoming nor dismissive, but rather carefully neutral. “I imagine the same things that bring you here, so far from home.”
It's an old song and dance, one she's more than happy to play. At least, until the next question falls impudently from Ellyse’s lips.
For a moment, she is rather confounded by the query. She has done a fair amount of negotiating in her life, but she cannot think of one which this mare might have been privy to. However, it takes her only a quick search of the other woman's visual history to provide the answer.
Cool blue gaze chilling to the iciest depths of winter, she shifts her gaze to boldly hold the other woman's eyes. One equine brow rising, she continues in a deceptively soft spoken tone, “And who says I have given anything of myself away?”
heartfire
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
i don't need you to understand that i'm already saved.
It is a wonder neither have spoken before – for where there was one, there was the other, not far off in the distance – by circumstance, certainly, but nonetheless a circumstance that had struck her as ironic. Birthed into a world rife with tension, violence – death, with blood draped over dry, golden vegetation, and with carcasses littering the plain, it had been a time of strife and of vengeance.
A wretched time to be born (she is not fazed by the stench of death; it had been too prevalent in her earliest days – it was every bit as much a part of her as the wistful memories of the ocean breeze, or her first flight), but alas, there is prowess and power embedded within the tender marrow of their bones, and laden in their blood – and thus, perhaps, being birthed into war had served them well.
Alas, it is the first time either had actually spoken, diplomacy aside (and truthfully, if it were not for ego and self-preservation, the two might have once been favorable companions). She cannot conceal the wry chuckle, nor can she keep it from bubbling up within her throat at her clever quip. ”Yes,” she murmurs, amusement laced in her tone. ”perhaps so.”
”That is an interesting ability you have, Heartfire,” she muses after a long moment, her hazel eyes studying her with a sudden intensity – there is a sensation prickling in her own mind; an intrusive disturbance. Though she does not know that it is visual prowess she has, mind reading is a possibility flittering across her mind, and that is more than enough information to gauge her. ”I doubt that your question is necessary if you can so easily read my thoughts.”
A pause, as she quietly moves nearer to her, her voice low as her gold-flecked gaze bores into her own, as steady and as forceful as hers – she would not stand down; nor would she be fooled by any pathetic attempt to seem soft-spoken or meek. She knew better.
”Our children are a part of us,” she murmurs, mischief glimmering in the heart of her eyes, still steadily set upon her. ”a single thread unraveled from our own cores. And in return for revenge, you gave your fertility. An interesting bargaining chip.”
A pause, and then a murmur – so low, it may as well be a growl.
”You’ll have to forgive me, but I do not trust those who lie with snakes.”
It is not the first time her abilities have been mistaken for mind-reading. There is a close connection, after all. Still, traditional methods of blocking mind-readers have no hopes of working on her. She had long ago learned that it is rather a boon to be so misjudged, and so she feels no compunction to correct the mistake. She may not be able to read minds, but the woman’s dry non-answer is answer enough.
She also feels no need to make any response beyond a slight quirking of her lips into the barest of smiles. There is no humor in that expression, but she has no doubt the other mare would be able to read plenty from the simple upturn of her mouth.
In so many ways they are similar. She would be blind not see such a thing, especially given her particular abilities. But neither is she naive enough to believe she could ever get along with herself, or anyone too similar, for that matter. Perhaps once, when she was young, she might have been able to develop a friendship with the mare next to her, but the opportunity has long since passed. Fate had decreed otherwise. She had met Wyrm instead. She is not fool enough to believe she would have developed such a deep and abiding kinship with the green stallion had she met him as an adult rather than a child.
But frankly, that is neither here nor there. Despite all odds, she does have a care for the man, and much more than a care for their children. She does not expect his woman to understand her reasons for her actions, nor does she have any desire to explain. She does, however, have a strong protective streak that Ellyse just happens to be trodding dangerously close to.
All expression slips from her features, her brilliant blue eyes sparking with a frigid fire. “And I do not trust those who cannot see past the end of their nose.”
She allows the silence to stretch for a heartbeat or two, eyes fixed upon the golden mare. Insulting Wyrm is one thing - he is a grown man who can defend himself - insulting her children is something else entirely. And the brazen woman had come perilously close to doing so. Close enough that she could not allow it to rest unchallenged. “You should leave before you say something best left unsaid.”
heartfire
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
i don't need you to understand that i'm already saved.
Ah, and their defining difference has revealed itself in quiet contemplation – where Heartfire had once held an open mind, and perhaps an open heart, Ellyse had been born callous, caring little for the company of others and preferring instead to delve into indifferent solitude. She had spent much of her youth tucked away within the shadows, shrouded in morning haze beneath a dimly lit canopy, toying with the dry, brittle bones and sinewy, rotting tissue of dead and dying creatures. Death did not frighten her – instead, it intrigued her.
It was the living that drove her away.
Alas, time had eventually worn her down, and loneliness had settled into her blood. The war-torn world had stolen away her only source of affection and adoration – her father (and even now, her heart would clench at the mere thought of him – she had not seen him in many years; she doubted she ever would again) - and it was not until she found unlikely comfort and solace in the companionship and amity of Magnus that her heart had begun to open up.
Motherhood had been her greatest accomplishment – she bore three by the one she had once given her heart to - how foolish she’d been. Perhaps that is the most glowing difference sparing the two from being too parallel: she had fallen in love; her children were the product of so much more than a dry, and unkind union born of vengeance. It would be a lie to say she does not feel superior to her for it (after all, she had never claimed to be humble nor kind) – even the darkest of hearts can see the power and prowess of love.
She no longer feels weakness for the love she has felt – merely foolish, but her ego will one day recover, and her heart will mend. The anger that had once consumed her no longer held any power over her – and should Heartfire see into her memories, it would be worthless to attempt using it to get under her skin.
Motherhood, though – motherhood, much like Heartfire, is both her finest strength and her greatest weakness.
There a long, lingering silence shared between them – her burning, fiery gaze of blue meeting with her own bristling flame of hazel, and without provocation, her golden skin parts for thick, bony spines that begin to protrude from her shoulders, along the length of her spine and up across her withers, rising from the tangles of her alabaster tresses. She may not wield the same mental prowess as she, but if she wanted a challenge, she would too willingly oblige.
”You do not frighten me, Heartfire,” she murmurs, her voice course and rough – a hint of a growl still rumbling through her words. ”you are nothing more than theatrics with no substance, at best – and at worst, well ..” and her lips upturn in her own dry, mirthless smile.
Within her mind, the clear image of two children filters through, both trembling and curled up into one another within the dark grasp of a spindly, murky forest – fearful and forlorn, and terribly alone; an insinuation of pitiable nurturing. Though they were not Heartfire's own children, it was an image she had recalled vividly from years ago, after the war had torn apart more than a few lives - an image with a dark enough suggestion to surely ruffle few feathers with its implication.
She is curious as to the reach of the blue roan’s unusual ability – and if her suspicion is correct, and if her image is as vivid to Heartfire as it is in her own mind, she would soon have her confirmation as to just how much she could see of her mind.
”I think I have made my point.”
Ellyse
omfg I am sorry she is bitch. :| I love Heartfire forgive meeee.
She had been born of love, a creation of the heart. She knows its power, and she knows the feel of it deep in her soul. Despite all appearances, she has loved, greatly and deeply. Her unwelcome companion might feel superior for its role in creating her own children, but it just shows exactly how narrow her world view is.
And frankly, Heartfire feels no need to justify herself. She never has. She has lived too long (oh, her body might be youthful, but her mind is ancient. Even had she not seen through the eyes of others, she has already lived a lifetime, one reigning as a queen in a far off distant land by the side of her first love).
So the accusation that she lacks substance, well, it's laughable. And as far as theatrics goes - Heartfire flicks her blue eyes to the spines now poking from Ellyse's golden skin, one brow rising in a gesture of derision. If she wanted theatrics, she could certainly provide, but she does not threaten unless she has every intention of upholding such an ultimatum.
The vision surprises her however. It's rare that there is such a sight strong enough the tickle her inner eye without her reaching for it. But curiosity, always her biggest weakness, has her shifting her sight to the mare, to the scene of two abandoned young children. The implication is unmistakable.
The anger that had been simmering inside of her flares to furious life, causing her entire body to go unnaturally still. And though she still has not moved a muscle, a ripple begins around them. The trees begin to shudder, the leaves quaking violently until they fall apart, turning to dust drifting down around them. The sun breaks through the abruptly denuded trees, the motes still dancing in the air caught in its yellow light.
Finally, she says simply, cryptically, “You should not start fires you cannot put out.” She turns to go, before pausing and looking back.
“If I were you, I'd worry more about your own family and less about others. We are done here.” With that last, she leaves, not bothering to wait for a reply. There is nothing more to be said.
heartfire
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
