"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
07-02-2021, 10:38 AM (This post was last modified: 07-02-2021, 02:59 PM by A God.)
A gentle wind whispers through the trees, sweeping across the land carrying the ancient refrains of a lullaby. Dipping down gullies and through the tangled branches of proud pines, it seeks and finds. It finds the worthy ones, the daring and bold, artful and crafty, and the ones in between. It finds them and whispers the sweet lullaby until they drift into slumber. When you wake, worthy one, you find yourself somewhere else. It is noisy and crowded, filled with the scent of horses, the stamping of hooves and the jangling of bridles. You wake to find yourself wrapped in a strange contraption, gilded leather straps around your cheeks and the taste of metal across your tongue.
You wake to find yourself captured and bridled.
Then a man comes, wide grin across his symmetrical features, a gleam of anticipation in his eyes. “My prized steed,” he crows, the sense of victory already around him. His hand comes down on your neck. Is he… patting you? He most certainly is, and he is speaking again too. “With you as my mount, we cannot fail.”
“Pollux!” another voice calls, and the man called Pollux turns to greet the other enthusiastically.
“Brother!” Pollux exclaims. The other man - the one Pollux claimed as brother - eyes you and smiles. “I see the gods have granted you your steed.”
Pollux pats your neck again, clearly pleased. “They have indeed, Castor. And he will carry me to victory.”
And now you know, you are to be the noble steed for this Pollux. You are to carry him into battle. Do you fight against this edict? Do you rail against where fate has brought you? It hardly matters. Not when the bit between your teeth ensures your compliance.
And so you are ridden into battle. The slamming of bodies and weapons, the screams of dying men, the crash of waves against the beach - it’s deafening, nothing like you’ve known before. Over the course of the battle, you find you can do some things. Small things. Things that, just maybe, could help or hinder, if you are in the mood. So what do you do?
Hello noble steeds! Welcome to round one (this will be a three round quest). Are you ready to begin your battle?
You have woken to find yourself wearing a magical bridle and forced to carry Pollux into battle. Your task is to describe this battle. You may include mythical creatures and characters in your post. You cannot directly disobey Pollux, but you can do things that might help or hinder him in his fight. Oh, and before I forget, there is one thing that absolutely must happen during this fight. Castor must die. How, when, or why he dies is entirely up to you.
A couple quick notes:
You do not have any of your non-physical traits. They are suppressed by the bridle. Wings, horns, etc are not, so you will still have those.
The battle takes place near the sea. Other descriptors are up to you.
As noted above, Castor’s death must happen at some point in your post. Pollux is immortal and will not die.
Please try to keep your posts under 1500 words. You won’t be penalized if you go a little over, but you might only if you go way over.
Temporary defects will be given if you fail to respond in succeeding rounds. If you need to drop out, just let me know and you won’t be given a defect.
That’s all! I’m much more interested in the story you tell than your grammar, so just have fun!!
If you have questions, please PM me.
Deadline to respond is Wednesday, July 7th and 11:59:59pm CST.
07-02-2021, 01:40 PM (This post was last modified: 07-06-2021, 12:45 PM by Obscene.)
Oh
I can see through you, see your true colors Cause inside you're ugly, you're ugly like me
There had been a strange song in his mind when he had fallen asleep on the cliffs of the Pampas. One that sang old words that he did not recognize but seemed to stir the serpent within, as if it recognized the song. The lullaby was soothing enough to lure him into a fitful slumber despite the writhing in his gut and when he awakes the Pampas are gone.
He awakens fully standing, unusual noises and even stranger scents filling his nostrils but nothing compares to the weirdesto sight that falls across his crimson gaze. Dozens of horses, all wearing strange contraptions across their face and back stand in rows behind him. There’s another horse close by and before he can ask where the fuck they are, a man (he knows this somehow, remembers a bizarre dream when he had looked similar and held a goblet in his human hand among other insane things like a screaming siren on wheels) has the actual audacity to come pat him on the neck. He tries to turn his head to bite the man who touches him with such familiarity but finds his head restrained. A golden bridle adorns his glittered head and if the reins of the thing weren’t firmly grasped in this man’s hand, he might have found the look a complimentary adornment. He glances down, seeing his chest bedecked in chainmail, much like the horse beside him.
Pollux, he learns, is the name of the man petting him and calling him… his steed. Castor is the name of the other, a brother he learns, that mounts the stallion beside him. He listens to this conversation of being a gift from the gods and in response he tries to rear, fighting against the nasty metal bit in his mouth that presses against his tongue. What the hell was this? He hears Castor laugh with delight as Obscene stamps his hooves and fights against his captivity. “He sure has a lot of fight in him brother. Can you handle such a steed?” Pollux only laughs with amusement. “I would settle for nothing less. Only a stallion with eyes of the devil would be fit enough for me.” He says, pleased, and then places a foot in the stirrup and swings up into the saddle.
Obscene pauses, having never in his life felt the weight of a man on his back. His response is exactly what one would expect as he begins to buck wildly to remove the offending weight, much to the amusement and delight of Castor and the thousands of soldiers around them. There is no amount of rearing or bucking that can remove Pollux off his backside, the man only seems to dig his calves around him harder as he grasps the reins and pulls back the dark stallions head. He tries to find that writhing inside of him, if ever there was a time to shift it would be now, but of course it doesn’t work. It never does when he wants it to. He doesn’t register that he doesn’t feel anything of the snake inside of him, his insides surprisingly still in the heat of his anger. “What did I tell you! The devil himself.” Pollux exclaims with a grin as Obscene finally begins to settle beneath his weight, rolling red eyes with rage as he finds that there is no escape. Not yet, anyways. Castor only chuckles softly and mutters something about the devil taking souls but his brother pays him no heed. There is no time to try and catch the other horses eye when he is urged forward and bitterly he complies, leading the hordes of troops into a battle he had never signed up for.
He has no idea what they are fighting or even why and doubts that it even matters. For a second he thinks of Aela and wonders if she would be enjoying this, this promise of bloodshed and mayhem. And then he thinks of Cheri, of what she would make of him in this state, and he once again tries to resist the constraining straps of the bridle to no avail. Pollux urges him forward with his legs, patting him roughly on the neck again in an attempt to settle him. ”Now now Devil, save that for the battlefield.”
It is not long before they are in the crush of battle, barely given time to admire the reflection of the sun against the waves of the sea beside them. Horses press against him on all sides as his rider swings his sword, cutting into enemies and their mounts alike. The sweat of men and equines mingles with the overwhelming scent of death and blood and soon he has forgotten Pollux with his hands on the reins, caught up in the frenzy of surviving. His dark coat is soon lathered in sweat, the whites of his eyes rimming red as he does his best to get himself through this mess he has found himself in. Quickly he discovers that his healing powers are gone too when an arrow pierces the exposed flesh of his shoulder that the chainmail hadn’t reached. He rears with pain, unable to find that power within, and is once more faced with an overwhelming sense of mortality as the shaft of the arrow breaks in his collision with another horse. Pollux moves him further in and the offender is soon dead, his head left spinning in the blood stained dirt. There are creatures they face that are humanoid but different, dark of skin with faces like pigs. Orcs, the humans call them. Other creatures that look vaguely like Steve carry many of these “bad” beings but his rider avoids these massive beasts, guiding Obscene through the chaos on a personal hunt of his own. There is smoke in the air by the time they start to close ground to where Castor is cutting down foes. He loses track of time, loses track of everything that’s happening except for the screams of dying men, horses, and orcs and simply trying to not lose his footing in the slickness of blood and gore as he collides again and again into enemies, trampling them beneath his hooves as they fall beneath the deadly flourishes of Pollux’s mighty sword.
Suddenly a reverberating horn calls across the lands and the orcs immediately retreat, taking their strange mounts with them. They pull back and cheers erupt among the humans left standing. His own rider cries out with his men, looking over to where his brother remains mounted with his own surviving troops a little distance away.
Castor, with sword in hand, raises it in a gesture of victory and all the men begin to cheer. Cheer until those cries fade away into ones of horror as a dark cloud falls over the victorious man and his jubilant soldiers as they are suddenly engulfed in the largest blast of fire he has ever seen. Pollux screams out in panic as the heat from the blast sweeps over them as Obscene dances back to escape it. It is almost as if time stops as he raises his bridled skull to the sky, finding the massive leathery wings that seem to blot out the sun. Black scales tinged with gold make his stomach curdle with familiarity as red equine eyes meet the red eyes of the dragon.
He swears the reptile almost smiles at him. As if it knows him.
He barely has time to avoid the next blast of fire, needing no direction from Pollux’s hand as he springs forward to avoid being incinerated. Fire licks at the long strands of his mane and tail, singeing the ends and leaving the scent of burnt hair amongst the sickening smell of roasted meat as he snarls against the metal bit in his mouth. Pushing against it as he thunders towards where Castor, his mount, and his men had once stood.
There is nothing left of the brother or his horse except for a smoldering helmet, the emblem of what they fought for melted and unrecognizable. He barely registers when the weight significantly lessons from his back as Pollux slips from the saddle and kneels in the sooty embers of destruction, holding his brother’s helmet in his gauntlets as he leaves his steed bleeding and breathing heavily behind him. His mount doesn’t watch the man in mourning, his gaze still on the sky. At the retreating dark figure flying low against the hazy orange horizon across the sea.
As the dragon returns to wherever or whoever it belongs to, Obscene has a thought. And it is simply this, he was growing mighty tired of being a puppet whose strings are constantly pulled by others. He flares his nostrils at the figure that grows smaller and smaller in the distance as he decides to finally do something about it. As he begins to cut himself free.
there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail the dream of about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream
If there’s one thing Rapt loves, it’s a monster.
If there’s two things Rapt loves, it’s a monster, and to serve.
So when he wakes in this strange place, bound in gold and tasting metal, he is intrigued. He enjoys the touch on his neck, the praise, and nothing in him panics, nothing in him cries out that this is unusual, that he did not go to sleep in this strange place, so why should he wake here?
Ah, but Rapt is so accustomed to the unusual, so it almost feels like home. He listens to the brothers’ exchange, smiles at the idea that he is something god-granted.
It’s not a question, for Rapt. He has always been ready for breaking, so when the bit slips in, he savors the taste of metal on his tongue, the heavy weight of it in his mouth. He lets the man – the god? – on his back. He had never thought himself a warhorse, though he bears enough scars for it. His scars are all from different kinds of wars. Still, he does not hesitate, and he does what he has always done best – he obeys. He moves toward the cacophony of war, because that is what is asked of him.
War does not suit him. Rapt prefers his violence to be personal, intimate – this is pure chaos, a seemingly endless stream of bodies colliding, bleeding, dying. He doesn’t know who’s a friend, who’s a foe – or if there’s any distinction. Perhaps they are all fighting just to fight. Perhaps that is the way of this world.
Rapt is moving faster now, weaving through the sea of bodies, guided by the warm metal in his mouth and Pollux’s shifting weight. A horse crashes to the ground before them, and Rapt jumps awkwardly, trying to avoid the body, but the horse’s rider is beneath his hooves too, and there’s a horrible crunch as his feet make contact with something soft, and Rapt wants to look back, stricken with a terrible desire to see what he has broken, but Pollux keeps the reins tight and digs his heels in.
By the time Rapt is able to glance back, the fallen pair are gone, swallowed by war.
Pollux fights astride him, and Rapt’s ears ring with the clang of the weapons. Someone’s sword slices down his neck, a shallow wound, but he feels the warm trickle of blood, staining his pale gold coat. When there’s a momentary pause in the fighting, Pollux notices this, touches his hand to Rapt’s damp neck.
“Sorry boy,” he says, pulling the bloodied hand away, “I won’t let it happen again.”
Rapt senses this is a lie. He knows he should be frightened, thrown into this as he is, yet he feels almost calm. He does not belong here, sure, but he has been given a job, and he has served.
Besides, there’s no use crying over spilt blood. Isn’t that how the saying goes?
Pollux guides him away from the heart of the battle, toward the sea’s edge. There’s a hint of red in the sand, and the sea itself is wild, frothy and tumultuous. Rapt can feel the sting of salt in the air, and the wound on his neck burns from it. Pollux halts him there, at the sea’s edge, waiting.
They don’t have to wait long, after a few minutes they hear hoofbeats, and the other man – Castor – arrives on his own steed. Castor’s mount looks more like a proper warhorse, a dark stallion thick with muscle, and Rapt feels dwarfed in his shadow.
“Is it there?” Castor asks. Rapt doesn’t know what it is. He listens, curious.
“I think so,” says Pollux. The brothers look out at the ocean, the furious waves. Rapt follows their gaze, and for the first time notices one section of the ocean that seems especially turbulent. The water appears to move in a pattern dissimilar from the regular rise and fall of the waves, like something else is creating the motion.
He has no sooner had this thought when something breaks the surface of the water, something dark and big, and the brothers are laughing.
“I knew it!” cries Castor.
“All the blood’s brought it close,” says Pollux, “damn thing’s gonna beach itself if it’s not careful.”
Rapt is still watching the waves. Now that he knows what to look for, he can see glimpses of the dark thing in the murky water. He still doesn’t have a full grasp on its size, or what it even is.
He knows it came for blood. He knows the brothers are laughing.
(If there’s one thing Rapt loves, it’s a monster.)
He watches the waves. The froth of them has turned red. Rapt’s own blood drips on the sand. The sounds of battle sound so far away.
“Shall we?” says Castor.
“Let’s go,” says Pollux.
Rapt is not asked his opinion, instead he is steered into the waves. The water breaks against his ankles, lapping against them. The water is warm, almost strangely so. Rapt wades in deeper, Castor’s mount beside him, and he does not question the reasoning of this, bringing such land-bound creatures into the waves to fight a monster.
He does not consider that they might be bait.
He is swimming in places now, his feet finding sand for a moment then losing it. The water is rougher here, and he inhales it, the salt burning his lungs, his eyes. He tries, for the first time, to disobey, but Pollux yanks the reins and Rapt finds himself unable to turn back to shore, helpless in his obedience.
There is a scream, and Rapt looks over just in time to see the blade in Castor’s hand, his mount’s throat cut, bleeding into the ocean, turned in just moments from warhorse into chum.
There’s a shriek, and a tentacle bursts out, searching. Castor’s knife strikes it, and something dark and ichor-like leaks from the wound, mixes with the blood already in the water.
It’s an inelegant fight, this, two foolhardy brothers against this unknown monster.
(Later, Rapt will learn the word kraken, finally given a name for the thing he was made to face, and the word will haunt him.)
They are in its element, but they have weapons, blades, and they strike, and Rapt swims where he is aimed, fighting to breathe in these churning waves and wondering, for the first time, what drowning must feel like.
Rapt doesn’t know if they’re winning. He only knows the taste of seawater.
Time passes. Somehow, it passes. It gets harder to swim. Something grabs his ankle and begins to pull him under, and he would fight it, really, he would, except he’s so damn tired, and for a moment he knows what drowning feels like.
(It feels like nothing. Like everything. There’s no metaphor for it, not here.)
It isn’t until he feels the tug on the reins that he realizes he isn’t being pulled under anymore. Pollux had saved him. Rapt doesn’t know if he’s grateful or resentful.
They win, or, Rapt thinks they win. The fighting stops and they are headed back to shore, and he can feel the sand beneath his hooves again. The creature floats motionless behind him.
Odd, that it floats. Rapt thought for sure it would sink.
The brothers are laughing, Castor finally able to stand, walk to the shore beside them. Their laughter is high, giddy, tinged with the taste of near-death.
Castor is still laughing when the arrow goes through his throat.
Neither Rapt nor Pollux realize this, at first. They take a few more steps – almost to the shore, now – when there’s a splash as Castor hits the shallow water.
Pollux screams, a high, reedy noise, and flings himself off of Rapt, runs through the knee-high surf to his fallen brother. Rapt looks out at the floating body of the monster. You should have killed him, he thinks to the monster, it would have been a more noble death.
There is nothing noble about this, Castor facedown in the waves as Pollux shouts, trying to turn him over while blood – so much blood! – blooms around his knees. Rapt tries to talk – to say what? – but when he opens his mouth seawater spills out. Had that been there, all this time?
How strange. Maybe he had drowned after all.
He should care more. He knows this. He tries. He splashes over to Castor. More arrows have begun to rain down, but neither seem to care. Pollux has flipped the body over now, and it floats, Castor’s open eyes staring at nothing, the hint of a smile still on his face. At least he died laughing, Rapt thinks, but figures that’s not much of a consolation to Pollux, so he’s quiet. He’s very tired. He finds he’s gone to his knees, too. So much blood in the water.
He looks back out at the monster. Pollux is talking, begging, saying something to his brother – or, the thing that was his brother – but Rapt is too tired to make out the words. He watches the monster’s body move gently in the water. The waves are calmer now.
He has already forgotten what drowning feels like.
but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever
Already he has grown weary of rebirth, but this is something else altogether.
Once, he had blinked and found himself changed.
Now he blinks and finds everything else changed.
He opens his eyes now and there are no traces left of his home, his sisters, though he himself has remained unchanged. This is not baptism by fire but something else entirely. He has not woken himself from a nightmare but backslid into one.
When the light finds him now, it brings with it a creature unlike anything he has ever seen before. A thing with a voice that speaks in a language he has never heard before. And it touches him, as if he belongs to it and diamonds ripple across his shoulder. A man. The man laughs in surprise, says something that Gravitas cannot understand.
(What the man says is this: “you’ll do fine, won’t you? Yes, you’ll do just fine, indeed.”)
It is when he opens his mouth to protest that he is finally shaken from the fog of his absolute, bone-deep confusion and notices for the first time the pressure on his face, the thing in his mouth. He is immediately seized by panic, rearing back his great head, red eyes rolling. But the man snatches at whatever it is that has him snared by the face, muttering something out of the side of what Gravitas assumes must be his mouth, touches his forehead, which is hard now with diamonds.
(“Settle, beast,” the man says in a soothing tone.)
And then another man emerges from the crowd, much the same as this one. Brothers, he thinks, they must be. They speak and Gravitas does not strain to understand them. Instead, he casts his wild gaze around at the other horses, each of them bound the same way he is, searching desperately for something familiar. But there is no one. Absent are his sisters, the fae, the Mother and the Father. Gone are any traces of Beqanna. He is alone, trembling in a way that makes the diamonds on his skin glisten. (How this delights the men! What a fine specimen he is!)
The thing the brothers do not know about Gravitas is that he is a coward. He has always been a coward. He had not killed the Mother when he’d had the chance. He does not know what these men want from him, but he suspects they will not find it here. Can they not see that the diamonds’ presence means that he cannot stifle his panic? If he could open his mouth he would tell them, he would make them understand.
(The brothers prepare to part. Castor lays a hand on Pollux’s shoulder, looks him in the eye and says, “be safe and swift out there, brother.” It is a meaningful look they exchange but the horse standing beside them is oblivious to the gravity of it. Pollux nods, swallows, but is unable to return the sentiment.)
And then Gravitas is left alone with Pollux, who turns back to the horse and says something quiet, unintelligible.
(There is no translation.)
He collects the reins and swings up into the saddle and Gravitas is not out of fight, it is simply that he does not know what he would do should he free himself from the man. There is nothing else for him here in this strange land, is there? He has no reason to trust the man, but he has no reason not to either. So, when Pollux gives the rein an experimental tug, Gravitas does his best to obey. When Pollux kicks him in the ribs, Gravits leaps forward, nostrils flared, eyes rolling. This is the only time they have for understanding one another before they are plunged into battle.
Battle?
That must be what this is, although it is unlike any battle Gravitas has ever known.
These creatures, men, they bleed just as the horses bleed. Bright red, feverish. Their pain is every bit as real, it makes them every bit as manic. They scream with it. Down there beside the sea, they fight and they bleed and the volume of it is unreal. (It is the volume that feeds his panic.) And they fight with weapons, not with their bodies and their teeth, which might have seemed strange if he’d had any time at all to stop and think about it. But Pollux alternates between kicking him wildly into motion and wrenching desperately at his mouth, yelling, unhinged, and brandishing his own weapon.
Gravitas cannot tell the enemy from ally here by the sea. He cannot hear himself think. He balks and spooks, allowing Pollux to direct him because he is not built for this. He is not meant for this specific form of fighting, this vicious kind of battle. His eyes roll madly as men and horses alike fall around him, felled by swords, bleeding into the sea. But he does not mourn them, they are not like him.
And then Pollux pulls him up short and he stands, trembling on the beach. Still, hundreds of horses and men fight there on the beach. Pollux shouts to someone nearby and Gravitas watches as the man from earlier turns his head sharply in their direction.
(“Brother!” Pollux shouts and Castor looks, recognizing his brother’s voice over the din of battle. “A band of fighters has broken off and disappeared over that ridge!” Pollux points up over a nearby cliff face. “We have to catch them before they can call upon more fighters!” Castor immediately kicks his mount into action and the two brothers gallop down the beach and up the ridge alone.)
Gravitas is breathing heavily, dripping sweat by the time they reach the top of the ridge. His vision strobes at the edges as Pollux eases him down into a trot. He recognizes the brother’s expression as confusion when he glances over his shoulder and sees that they have slowed.
(“Brother?” Castor calls back but Pollux does not reply. Castor pulls up his mount and circles back. “Is your horse all right?” he asks. Pollux shakes his head, still doesn’t speak, just stops his horses and draws out his sword. He examines the blade thoughtfully.
Castor’s confusion slowly begins to dissolve around realization. There was never any rogue band of fighters.
“Pollux…”
But Pollux does not look up from his blade. Several long seconds pass before he begins to speak.
“All I have ever wanted was for mother and father to be proud of me. Me, the eldest son,” he pauses then and shakes his head, “but they have only ever had eyes for you. Castor, the golden boy. Castor, who could do no wrong.” The bitterness in his voice pools in the air between them. “Castor, who took everything from me.”
Castor tries to object but Pollux does not give him the opportunity.)
It is because Gravitas is a coward that he does not resist when Pollux urges him forward. It is because he does not understand their language that he leaps into motion when Pollux kicks him swiftly in the ribs. But he leaps sideways when the blade sinks into the brother’s chest and his face collapses around grief and then horror and then nothing at all. His mouth opens like he might say something but no sound comes out as he slumps forward and then sideways and his own mount skitters out of the way, pauses, and then, realizing its sudden freedom, turns and gallops off. Gravitas longs to follow it, his own heart pounding frantically in his temples.
(“Give my regards to the Gods, brother,” Pollux says, sheaths his blade, and then steers his horse back toward the battle still raging on the beach.)
He resists now, as Pollux kicks him back toward the fighting. He tosses his head, chewing savagely at the bit, bucking as they race down the beach.
He no longer trusts the man on his back, understanding exactly what he has done.
Tirza has never tasted captivity before but she recognizes it even before she is fully awake. More than just the alien sensation of straps and metal against her skin is the uncomfortable feeling of not being fully in control of her body or her destiny. An angry hiss escapes her as soon as she is awake enough to fully comprehend what is happening and sees the strange creatures that are responsible for it.
Her first action is to try to bite the one who pats her but though the bite lands, he barely seems to feel it. In retribution, he yanks harshly on her bridle and tells her “None of that now, boy.” Boy she snorts, her red eyes rolling in her annoyance but a sharp smack against her shoulder stops the second bite that she had been thinking of landing on whatever new piece of his soft-looking flesh that she could reach.
The indignity of the whole thing distracts her from the conversation between the brothers until Pollux hoists himself into the saddle on her back and she starts - roaring her displeasure at this new development and rearing before being brought back into line by a hard and rough handling.
“Sure you can handle that one, brother?” Castor teases while finding his own mount, a stallion darker than the night with amber-bright eyes who stands with more patience than Tirza has ever possessed in her entire life. She has nothing but a glancing look for this cowed creature, this pet, and pointedly avoids looking at all the other horses as she shifts unsteadily. Pollux curses the gods for the steed he has been given by them and then he curses her a few more times for good measure. Tirza hears every word and the bright colours of her coat seem to burn a little brighter in response. It is not her doing, and perhaps it is some of these gods he is now bitter with. Whatever it is, it helps her settle into a feigned acceptance. Her heart begins to race with anticipation and as they make their way to the sea.
Enraged by the sight of the ocean, that of all places that she has to be while trapped like this it has to be the one that smells like her first home, Tirza tries to push out every scrap of her life-stealing power into the creature on her back. Not a single second returns to her, this skill she's honed since she was a young filly is not one she can reach now, and her coat burns brighter still.
There is no choice but to obey, to suffer this moment and wait for her chance to turn it into her favour.
She is at the front of the line of soldiers that passes over the sand-and-grass plain and this suits the phoenix-coloured mare's ego enough that she trots prettily and forgets the smell of the sea that reminds her of where she was born. Pollux relaxes at her compliance and she can feel his eagerness for bloodshed in every twitch of his body. It is all strange to her, these funny oval-faced creatures all riding steeds of magnificent colours and shapes. Some aren't even horses, some are only part. They all stamp the ground and posture before something Tirza misses triggers the battle and then they are all charging towards each other.
There is a thrill in this, in racing towards danger. Pollux immediately takes an arrow to the arm and Tirza's delight is dashed by the way he snaps it and tosses it aside as though it were nothing. Remembering how her bite had not injured him either, she glowers but can do nothing but let him lead her where he wishes. They charge into the enemy's lines, though she cannot discern one army from the next once they begin to mix. She merely turns when she is bid, striking out at anyone who dares to get close. Not to protect her rider, though he comes to believe this, but to protect herself as best as she can.
The wounds she earns are minor, red bleeding into the vivid colours of her coat and fueling her rage. She begins to choose where they head next, always dragging Pollux into the thickest of clusters - always hoping that perhaps this will be the time he bleeds and she can go back to making her own choices. He curses her again but each time someone raises their sword against him he grins fiercely - lost in the lust of battle.
Tirza is beginning to enjoy herself, each small rebellion where she shifts her weight to present Pollux with a newer, larger enemy. Each time she dances out of the way of the claws of a griffin or a golden lion she feels a flush of triumph.
An instinct that does not belong to her, a voice whispered inside of her mind, tells her to turn at the right moment. She slides to a stop and Pollux breathes heavily on her back - exhilarated as his eyes scan the crowd. They find Castor, and the two brothers raise their swords to each other in salute. One blink and they are smiling, and the next Pollux has a perfectly unobstructed view of when a giant eagle descends and rips Castor's still-grinning head off of his shoulders. The night-dark stallion bellows in terror, racing off with the remainder of the body still in the saddle.
Stunned into silence, Pollux can only watch as the eagle flies and releases his brother's head so that he must either shield himself from it or drop his sword to catch it.
Instinct has steel land on blood-soaked sand, instinct has Pollux catch Castor's grinning face. These gods do not take kindly to their gifts being scorned. Tirza laughs and she is sure that she hears the eagle laugh as well as it disappears just before Pollux begins to scream.
It had been an unremarkable night in an unremarkable place when Chel had fallen asleep. She knew from the moment she began to stir that something had changed.
Everything had changed.
Chel’s nostrils flare as the overwhelming scent of horseflesh and something else burns her nostrils. Her consciousness returns to her slowly and all at once, but her vision remains clouded and confused. She tries to shake her head to clear the unpleasant sensation as her vision begins to slowly clear but finds that the motion is impeded by something. She blinks rapidly trying desperately to clear the remaining haze from her vision, and in doing so becomes aware of other unpleasant sensations. The metallic taste in her mouth was from a bar of metal in her mouth, which she could not dislodge. She immediately tries to shift into something small enough to free herself from this device, but her shifting doesn’t respond, much to her chagrin.
Understanding settles when she sees other equines who also appear to be bridled, but unlike her all appear to be lacking wings. They, however, wear an assortment of other armor and some even have men sitting astride them, something that makes anxiety churn in Chel’s stomach. Surely this had to be a dream? But everything felt so real. She could smell the salt of the sea, the sweat of horseflesh, and the strange scent of man. She could taste the cold metal on her tongue. She could feel the leather straps against her face. She could hear the clanging of metal and the shifting of hooves against sand. Clearly not all of her senses were deceiving her.
Chel watches them warily – these men. These are not creatures she is familiar with. The muscles in her neck twitch as one, the one called Pollux, touches her so freely. She cares little for their conversation, still absorbed in trying to figure out what the actual hell was going on.
She has little time to puzzle things out. When strange drumbeats begin to echo from somewhere too distant to see, the other man – Castor – abruptly departs after clasping hands with the one who holds her reins in his hands. They mutter something to eachother – something she cannot hear over the sound of activity that now thrums through the encampment. “To Battle!” they cry.
Chel doesn't really have time to stop and think about her current predicament. The other horses and riders are already forming lines away from the dunes out closer to the shoreline, away from the tents and other supplies. There were a lot of things running through her head and most of them were any number of curse words. She wonders, idly, if she dies here in this place if she would simply wake up or...
The train of thought shatters when Pollux clambers, somewhat ungracefully, upon her back. She squeals angrily as he clumsily settles himself behind her wing joints. She flutters her wings until they are again comfortable and Pollux leans forward, again stroking her neck gently. She calms, for a moment, at the soft touch. “I’m sorry. There was no saddle that would fit without inhibiting your wings.” It isn't much in the way of apology, but it would have to do. The beating of the drums never ceases, and Pollux uses his legs and the bridle to guide her alongside Castor who is mounted on his own steed, a large black horse with deep brown eyes who acts as if this is the most normal, boring day of his life. Meanwhile, Chel longs to shed this body for one with teeth and claws if she’d be expected to shed blood this day.
The lines of horses begin moving as horns sound somewhere behind them. Chel has no choice but to follow. The men raise their swords and scream as the enemy does the same as they come into view across the sands. Eventually the lines meet in a ferocious clash of bodies, steel, and blood. Chel balks as others bump against her, crushing her wings against her sides. She grits her teeth and fights the bit between her teeth. She can't help but think that this man, who had the audacity to sit upon, her is going to get her killed.
That was quite enough of this she thinks. Chel, along with Pollux, takes to the air. She hears the man yelp in surprise and his free hand grip her mane tightly but it didn’t stop her ascent. Behind her, she hears Castor let out a whoop and she smirks. Maybe, just maybe, she could be good at this battle thing.
And she was. Chel allowed Pollux to guide her as they swooped down upon the enemy’s lines, forcing them back from above. This was much preferred to the crush of death and steel below. Surprised enemy archers had no chance to draw as Pollux cut them down. Swordsmen couldn’t reach the legs she kept out of reach. Chel and Pollux became a team on the bloodstained sands, each doing what they could to ensure the other’s survival.
Eventually the enemy turned and fled – the battle won.
Or so they’d all assumed.
She returns to the ground, landing beside Castor who’d been battling on foot having been thrown from his horse at some point during the melee. That was when the drumming begins again, but it is different this time. This time each drumbeat reverberates under their feet. She can feel the vibration in the sands. The waves of the ocean were vibrating in strange, unnatural patterns.
You know that thing they say about assuming? Applicable here.
Something was wrong. Chel knew it. The other horses did too. The men seemed to remain oblivious to the new threat that now been summoned from the sea. Castor and Pollux only began to grow concerned when the tide receded into a fury of bubbles just offshore.
“REFORM THE LINES!” they shout, in tandem, trying to organize what remains of their forces.
The Hydra bursts from the sea as Chel again makes for the skies, pushing herself higher and faster than before. It is difficult to climb quickly with the man on her back, but she can feel his fingers laced tightly in her mane, so she carries him clear of the three snapping jaws of the creature.
The Hydra uses its sweeping tail to clear the bloodstained beach, unleashing a shriek from all three heads that has Chel pinning her ears flat to her skull. It snaps at the men who thrust their swords in an effort to stop its progress. But when one head drives them back, another head swoops in and crushes the men in its jaws. The Hydra makes quick work of the men on the beach, she flies a wide circle so that Pollux can take stock of what is happening on the sands below. And it is that moment when Pollux sees Castor among the men trying to push the Hydra back into the sea.
“Brother!” he bellows as he digs his spurs into Chel’s sides. Chel snorts at the rude encouragement, but deep down knows that they are his brother’s only chance. So, she presses forward, allowing him to provide direction through the bridle as she gains speed as they grow closer to the beast. She can see, perhaps better than Pollux can, how the creature stalks his brother and presses herself faster, feeling the muscles in her wings and back burn with the extra burden she carries. The creature shrieks as Castor lands a superficial blow on its hide and focuses its central head on the soldier. Before it’s teeth find purchase, Chel dives. Pollux clings tightly to her mane with one hand and in his other, he brandishes his sword. The momentum of the dive is enough for Pollux’s sword to penetrate the beast’s flesh and sever the head of the beast entirely, giving Castor time to stumble to safety.
The Hydra’s two remaining heads scream and writhe in a mixture of shock and pain. Cheers erupt from the soldiers on the beach. Chel immediately levels off and banks so she could see for herself that they’d indeed been successful. But before she can even take a breath of relief, the Hydra has managed to regain its composure. The two heads that remain become eerily calm as the stump where the center head had once been begins to undulate. In mere moments, two fully formed heads sprout from where only one had been prior. The sense of relief she had felt only moments prior quickly evaporates.
The Hydra doesn’t even hesitate, with one of the newly sprouted heads grabbing a still shocked Castor and swallowing him whole.
You were never meant for obedience, you sour-faced girl.
When the gentle breeze whispers your name, you hardly rouse from your slumber. (And before, when wild wind swept you this way and that, you faced it with gritting teeth and opposed the push and pull because it dared to force your hand. This is no different. You will not obey.) The subtlest flutter disturbs your eyelashes, but you do not stir. Whatever the lullaby weaves, your dreams tell you it can wait until morning.
When you awake, the tapestry draped around you is bright and violent in ways you never knew existed. To your left and right, the startled snorting and kicking threads red into your ears. Before you weaves dirty brown water and fencing. Wrapped around your face strings brilliant gold and in your mouth sits harsh, metallic silver. You taste the lullaby's magic before fully understanding it.
Obedience weighs heavy on your tongue.
My darling girl! you hear the pleased stranger cry as he loosens your ties and draws you forth. Your heart races with rage. Every atom in your body rebels. Your head snaps backward but that savory silver--that lesson on your gums--it loosens the stiffness in your legs. It follows wherever the stranger beckons. You find you cannot stray.
Soon, you learn that the creature leading your way is called Pollux. You learn that Pollux is fond of another creature of his type, Castor. You watch with reeling, violet eyes as these beings admire you. You feel that age-old dread in your gut: the inevitability of fate. And when Pollux touches you lovingly, you do not shy away. That silver in your mouth, the cold obedience, loves to be praised. You feel that love and you want it, too.
The bit teaches you quickly. Once Pollux is comfortable atop you, you catch on quickly to the intricacies of his hand, the subtle movements, the quiet direction. You find you like his gentle sounds of delight, the way he slaps your neck when you surprise him with your quick wit. You love his praise and he loves your instinct. You two, in the minutes before looming battle, are a perfect match.
The beach is hot and you dance anxiously, terribly unfamiliar with war but certain something terrible is to happen. The sun is hot, noonday and blistering, beating down on cooking sand; and you and your companions all shuffle uncomfortably beneath leather and metal armor.
It's in these short minutes that you learn what Castor and Pollux mean to each other. Pollux and your immortality, Castor jokes. Pollux jovially slaps his brother on the shoulder, laughing with all the force of his gut. It is clear there is love and devotion between them. You, for the first time in your short life, feel a twinge of jealousy. Moments ago, Pollux was showering you with all the praise a man might muster for a horse; but it is clear you will never have that (that unconditional companionship borne only between lifelong brothers, that single slap on Castor's shoulder carrying so much more weight than the ones to your neck).
When the battle begins, the shouting and scoring, the battering and blood, you throw yourself into pleasing your leader. Oh, you sour-faced girl. Oh, you naive, shrewd lioness. Perhaps you were born for battle, for obedience. Perhaps you just never met the hand meant to guide you. You have always been destined for displeasure, for falling headlong into that which you did not mean to cause. Is that why you did it, Galadriel? Is that why your sour face, screwed up in utter concentrated devotion, falls flat at your realization?
It's not your fault Pollux's men are not prepared for Poseidon's wrath. It's not your fault that sword and leather is nothing against a sea-god's army. None of this is your fault. You tell yourself over and over, as the green and blue river gods descend, it is not your fault.
You can hear the men crying out that they've angered Poseidon for spilling blood into his clear ocean. How could they have known that today he was charming some unsuspecting nymph with the aquamarine clarity on this beach's reef? How could you have known, Galadriel? How could you have known of the dangers of war, the fickle wiles of the gods?
It is not your fault that Castor falls down beneath a pile of writhing sea serpents. How could it be your fault? Your only intention was to draw that loving hand back to your side. For Pollux to be so pleased with your instincts that he'd proclaim he will never take another steed. When you subtly drew him further and further away from his brother, you only wished to bring him glory. To make him the brother that struck down more of their enemies.
But when Pollux catches sight of his falling sibling, cutting down snakes even as he falls to his knees in the shallow water, he roars and tears the bit so hard against your lips that you bleed. He beats you with his heels and his hand. In those few moments, no matter how your hooves slam against the sand, you are never fast enough. Pollux does not love you as you race to his brother, who lies face up in the wash. He falls from your side and cries anguish, anguish, anguish. As you stare down at the foaming mouth of poisoned Castor, you feel the weight of obedience.
For those who are most obedient are always forgotten.
As the unfamiliar hand of a man pats her gilded skin, the palomino mare throws her blazed head up and away from the foul-smelling beast. His stench - and that of the other beasts - is almost overwhelming. Her delicate ears pin into the fine silk of her pale mane and the small creature lifts her pale lips in a brilliant flash of white, rebelling against the copper bit in her mouth: a warning of what will happen if he attempts such a gesture again. The thing known as Pollux laughs, a sound as warm as the honeyed brew that he and his brother had been drinking earlier.
"I think you would have been better off with a mule," the other brother known as Castor says, grinning wildly to his twin as if there wasn't a battlefield behind them. For a few moments, there isn't. There isn't; there are just these two brothers. The other man - Pollux - smiles almost shyly. He is leaner than his broad-chested brother, looks more like the lanky youths that have never seen a battle before (and might not live beyond this one). His touch comes gentler this time as he moves to readjust the bit and check the bridle. Aela tilts her head away from him but there is a knowing in his touch, a respect (a reverence) that wasn't there before.
She does not attempt to bite him, (yet).
"One does not question the Gods, brother." Pollux tells Castor, and this intrigues the golden mare who has always known that she was something divine and fate-forged. An ear flicks in their direction and she stands, allowing them both a brief reprieve because they seem to admire the way her gilded coat was illuminated by the sun. It shimmered and gleamed in a way that none of the other horses nearby did; they might be bulkier in build or of a temperament better suited for the battlefield but the small mare at that moment was truly a sight to behold. "I doubt even Aeneas has a mount so fine," he continues, speaking of their cousin and then Castor laughs again, a guffaw that breaks the spell they had been under as he slaps Pollux's back. "That, little brother, is a steed fit for Helios' chariot."
And then the laughter dies.
A horn sounding from the nearby encampment - the one that smells of unwashed bodies and too many animals living close together - and the brothers turn to each other. It a silent moment and with war so near on the horizon, the two siblings nod while Pollux returns to Aela and Castor leaves to retrieve his steed (some plain, brown beast that she would refuse to acknowledge). The man doesn't try to pat her again but he moves slowly, gathering pieces of tanned hide and metal while he continues to talk. She isn't sure if it is meant to comfort her, to make her understand how she got here or why, or if he means to reassure himself with his steady speech. Her near-white tail twirls when he comes close with the assembled leather and Pollux continues to speak with a kind of drawl to his voice; long and low, like much of the coastal landscape around the war camp. Softly rumbling, like the cadence of the waves on the beach.
Pollux's voice fills with flattery - that she is God-granted, that she is glowing like the sun, that she is beautiful as all Divine beings are - and then he ruins it.
He mars her golden hide with his saddle (she needed no other war adornments, Pollux claimed, not for the mare who was rumored to be swifter than Hermes himself). One foot goes up into the contraption and he heaves himself on her back, lacking any kind of grace. The other foot finds home in the stirrup and for a moment, Aela stands still. She has never felt this before; it bothers her in a way that the dream-like land and every other unfamiliar thing in this place does not.
So they stand and he sighs, thinking that the worst is over.
He clicks his tongue in a bestial way and digs his heels into her sides to urge her forward.
So forward she goes, shifting all her weight forward, forward, forward in an attempt to send him spiraling over her head. When that fails, she shifts her weight back, as Pollux shifts his to the back of his saddle, to send him rolling off her haunches. She careens her body this way and that, all in an attempt to get him off her as his seat shifts around. While Pollux had fumbled into the saddle and Aela had doubted his senses, it seemed he had enough of them to hold on. There would be no unseating him.
"Be sure to name that one Fury!" Castor calls out as he and his mount approach them at a brisk trot.
Aela is lathered in sweat and she can feel the anger rising in her, as dark and ominous as the storm clouds on the horizon. She goes to reach for it, thinking that she will make her rider feel so forlorn that he wouldn't wish to breathe again. But the tendrils of emotions that she has always had at her command aren't there; there is only Pollux above her. She tries again, relishing the way that she envisions that he will become so desperate to get away from her that he will race into the sea and drown himself. But nothing happens except another click of his tongue, another light dig of his heels into her slender barrel.
So forward, she goes.
Her mind plots and schemes as it always does. But he has roped her somehow, tied all her emotions and bound them as she is restrained by his bridle. She seethes, but there are no flames. There is nothing to burn his soft skin or set him aflame and so she turns her ire into finding a way forward that will set them both free. War waits for no one and it is already clamoring by the time the brothers arrive; there is the squeal of horses, the bitter tang of blood, and the clang of weapons as they clash.
Forward, Pollux bids her and so forward they go.
There is hollering and shouting. There is pleading and praying.
The sounds are a cacophony of chaos and something in the song hums to Aela; it is pure adrenaline.
They charge into the fray and she is as fast as the Gods promised she would be. The little mare - smaller than the baroque warhorses - carries Pollux forward through the lines of soldiers. She sees it out of the corner of her blue eyes - a spear hurdling towards them - intended for her rider. It comes fast but she is faster and quicker yet because of the rider and mount beside them. Because the weapon lodges itself through the throat of Castor instead of its aim, Pollux. Had they slowed, perhaps the leaner brother might have seen it coming.
Might have been able to warn or perhaps even save his brother.
But Castor - suffocating on his own blood - slumps in his saddle while the bay stallion leaps to the side, screaming as another hurdled weapon strikes him in the chest. Pollux pulls his reins to turn and see the source of the sound: his twin brother laying facedown in the sand while his blood eddies out into the bay where numerous ships float.
"Castor!", a blood-curdling cry that joins in the din of the battlefield. Pollux says the word over and over again, like it might change fate. It doesn't. The man dismounts and runs to his brother, cradling him as he dies, trying to wipe away the evidence of the war surrounding them with his tears. He rocks back and forth like the waves, saying a thousand prayers to every God that Pollux can think of in their pantheon.
Aela feels pleased.
She had done what he asked, after all. Forward, he commanded her.
She had done as he asked and then he learned the brutal truth: Gods have a price.
Sintra doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she must have, because she awakens in a nightmare of smoke and sound and the bright taste of metal in her mouth. The stink of fear is like grease in the air and fills her flaring black nostrils like the blood of those monsters that filled Beqanna’s long Night. To her right, rows of horses wrapped in metal and leather stretch almost too far to see, squealing and snorting and throwing thick froth from their mouths when they toss their heads, agitated. There is blood in their mouths and it turns their chests a rusty pink. To the left… Nothing. Darkness. She is even blind in her dreams
Her own chest is pink with blood and froth, though she cannot remember anything leading up to this moment, anything leading up to the man that holds the straps of her enslavement. Her tongue recoils from the weight of the spade bit but the high port only digs in deeper and Sintra, who never fights, gapes her mouth in protest as the other horses do, but the men say the gods have given her to him and she cannot think of any way to refute this. It is the only thing that explains what is happening; the gods are fickle, and she is certain they do not love her.
Under the press of his hand, she stills but for the trembling of her transparent skin.
Castor laughs at his brother’s bravado.
“Brother, she’s missing an eye and a twelve-year-old boy with his first spear couldn’t miss that heart,” he grins darkly and comes nearer, his own horse, a bright chestnut stallion, bares its teeth at her and her heart and her glowing bones, “I think the gods are playing a trick on you.”
“Perhaps.”
The chestnut stallion is covered in scars and she counts them and feels her stomach twist. A slash across his face, across his belly, a missing ear, pockmarks in his neck and haunches and anywhere not covered by the saddle. His tail has been docked, its ends neatly trimmed, and Castor makes the livid beast dance away from her in time to the drums beginning behind them. Pollux leaps up lightly, reins in one hand, bronze sword in the other. The drums beat louder, almost as loud as the heartbeats in her ears, and then suddenly there are spurs digging deep in her sides and she leaps forward with a cry that matches the growling yells that rise up all around. It’s war.
Suddenly, Sintra thinks that she doesn’t want to die, but every time she tries to stop, the spurs dig in again and send her forward. She isnt sure how she knows what to do, when the rein rests against her neck, when his weight shifts, but she’s moving with the man in a choreographed dance. And she doesn’t want to die. She doesn’t want to die, so Sintra, who never fights, bares her teeth when the men come too near and she squeals and strikes at them, and they howl when her hooves find the bones they hide like cowards.
“They’re breaking ranks!” Pollux cries above the din to whoever can hear him. Sintra thinks perhaps it is only to her, she cannot tell friend from foe and lunges indiscriminately except when her rider pulls up on the reins, but even then, she hears his laughter, and it’s a mad sort of laughter, reveling in the chaos.
”Go!” he shouts in her ear and Sintra, obedient, goes at a raging run with the music of his sword ringing in her ears above screams and splatter and the churning sound of the sea turning red with blood. Bodies float around them, drowned, beheaded, disemboweled, men and horses lie underfoot and her hooves crush them as they break the lines. These men are afraid of her, of the ghost-mare and her rider that laughs as his army destroys him, as the try to get away, but those who escape Pollux’s swinging sword find bloody teeth in their faces. She grabs a man by the jaw, her angry teeth ripping the tender flesh. The blood that spatters across the shanks of her bit and turns her shimmering chest scarlet is not hers alone anymore. It should bother her, she knows, but the taste of their blood is not much different from the taste of the bit, and she has learned to carry that weight in the hours – it feels like minutes - of the battle. The spurs again. She leaps over the body of a red stallion, his skull caved in by a pole-hammer's blow, and does not pause to recognize him.
“You’ve been unhorsed, Castor!” The other man barely takes time to grin up at his brother as he engages a foot soldier nearby. Pollux pushes her forward and the men fall away from them, from her, from the violet-eyed demon, the skeleton mare like walking death, and there are curses on the lips of these tired, frightened soldiers. Some throw their swords to the ground, but not the man who fights with Castor, they are locked together, old warriors too evenly matched.
Proud Pollux send her forward again, closer to his brother, his sword arm raised to aid him, but Castor’s premonition comes true then and Sintra rears, screaming, the spear sprouting from her chest like a green sapling, its bronze roots deep in the soil of her chest. Who could miss that heart, if they aimed, Castor had asked. Sintra lunges awkwardly, and her feet don’t respond. Are they there? Grunting, stumbling, she rears again, ignoring Pollux who leaps clear of her back. Her hind legs twist under her as the rest of her vision goes black and she falls, crushing Castor beneath her twitching bulk. She doesn’t feel his bones cracking or hear the wet crackle of his breathing. She only knows that she doesn’t want to die.
But wanting isn’t enough, because she does, in a terrible clatter of hooves.
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