"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
For once, neither of them has anything to say to the other.
It began when they dared one another to leave the lands of the Sunrise.
It began with that first step outside the Mountain’s farseeing shadow.
It began when they garnered their first taste of complete separation --
They had come to a fork in the trail.
Which way to go?
They had bickered for hours and then -
He took the left fork and she took the right.
Their time apart had changed each of them, aged them even.
They came back to that same fork in the road almost a year later.
He was thicker through the shoulder, broader in neck and chest.
She was as a mare should be, small and lovely and much leaner than he.
They were older, and things between them had definitely changed.
Neither of them cares much if they will be remembered.
They think of old friends they’ve made but have no real hope of remembrance.
Still, they traipse down old familiar trails that know the heft of their feet and even the scattering of small half moon indentations in the dirt look oddly comforting to each of them.
Faces look familiar to them, but they do not call out of them in nickers and neighs of recognition.
Both of them remain quiet which for either of them, is a bit of a rarity and quite the oddity to be sure.
They have their secrets after all, and it is these secrets that haunt their eyes that never seem able to find the other’s face for very long before sliding away. He thinks things, and she thinks things, and their trek inward is hardly in unison for them like it used to be - his strides are short and choppy as he tries to keep from pacing ahead of his much smaller sister, and she tends to fall back anyway, constantly in thought that has nothing to do with him and he knows it - it knots his brow in consternation but she refuses to open up to him about it. She knows there are things that he’ll never tell her, so she keeps to herself and follows along out of diligence more than anything else.
Whatever happened out there, sundered something in them…
It was night when the fire came back for me. Of course it was night; the fire always kept me warm in the dark, flickering in the shadows, little tongues of flame licking along my skin to chase the cold away. Sparks dancing in the wake of those flames, leaving a tingling warmth in their place as they faded. Of course it was night, when the fire finally returned.
It claimed my wings first, just as it had when I followed my father up the Mountain to petition for a place to live. I fought back the screams that tried to tear from my throat as the limbs I’d grown to love burned away, feathers turning to ash, flesh burning and blood boiling. The flames left nothing in their wake but angry scars along my back where my lovely wings used to be. Scars and a few precious memories of soaring through the sky.
Still, there was a strange sort of affection in the way the fire wrapped itself around me, caressing my skin and reminding me we belonged together even as agony washed over me in waves, Beqanna’s vicious little reminder that she was not pleased with me. Stubbornly, I clung to my newly returned fire despite the pain, letting it sink back into me and melt the ice in my bones, warm my insides in a way I hadn’t felt in half a year.
Months have passed since my fire came home to me. Months where every touch of added warmth, every flickering flame, every spark and burning ember lit up not just the darkness, but also every last pain nerve in my body. Months where agony sank into my soul, into my flesh, subtly reshaping me until somehow that agony is beginning to feel like a friend. A companion almost as constant as my fire. She whispers in my veins, a heated murmur I’ve just barely begun to hear over the hurt, and something in that almost inaudible voice is calling, beckoning, inviting. I just can’t quite hear what.
Maybe someday I’ll be able to hear her well enough.
She is silent today, for the moment at least, as I amble through the Meadow in search of a familiar face. I haven’t felt much like talking to anyone, not since the fire claimed me again and burned away my wings. But I have finally begun to adjust, and to remember how lonely it is to be without anyone else in the world. I haven’t even seen my father in a long time, let alone any of the friends I made as a child.
A child. I suppose I still am one in body, if only by a bit. I’ve grown taller, broader, the feathering on my legs filling out and the deep red of my mane spilling down my neck in long, chaotic strands. The awkward, gangly lines of childhood have begun to round out some into curves, though only just. My limbs are just beginning to show the strength I’ll one day possess, hints in the flex and release of muscle as I walk. And my eyes, still a gleaming gold, scan the Meadow around me, searching the faces I pass for any sign of familiarity.
When I see them, I almost do not recognize them. They’re no longer close to one another, in height, in movement, in...in nature. There used to be some indescribable bond between them, like an invisible cord tying them to one another, syncing their words and their thoughts and their body language. Now...they’re so different from one another, it’s only the familiar shapes of their markings that catches my eye. It is only the familiar mismatch of their eyes, each with one eye the same red as my hair, that makes me sure.
“Spear? Spark?”
I call their names softly, approaching cautiously. They’re so different. But I can’t help but remember the casual brush of lips and noses along my shoulders, my neck, my sides. My very first best friends, even if I only knew them briefly. “Is it really you?” I ask, my eyes lighting up with joy. “I’ve missed you so!”
Once, that would have been offensive to their very nature as twins to be so separate in thought and action. Now they embrace it, and even though their eyes slide to one another’s skins (each of them can feel the heavy heat of it trying to bore deep into their dark secret hearts) for moments at a time that feel stolen and cheap, they slide back away again and seem less together and more individual than they ever have before.
The meadow rolls out before them in sheaves of grass and wildflower; most of it is turning brown in stages of death that make them contemplative, but also look away. The decay speaks to something in each of them, something that is unwelcome but embraced as they feel the chill in the wind that bites at their necks beneath their upflung knotty manes. Briefly, their eyes meet then slip away and they hide behind thoughts that neither of them mentions to the other. How did it become this way for them?
It was the fork in the road, the decisions they made to go different ways.
Because of it, they were forever changed.
More than likely, they are on the cusp of something momentous occurring in both of their lives:
Growing up.
Splitting up.
Change.
Neither of them is frightened, more like resigned, to what is to come. But what comes is a familiar black horse, having grown a little more into herself like they have. Her mane is still as red as a male cardinal’s tailfeather, and the eyes that find them are the same rich gold that they both remember. Lily was always at odds with her nickname, they both thought. Such a sharp contrast between the fierceness and fire of her colors, and the nature of her sweetness that always bubbled up to the surface of her skin in quick flashing smiles and happy close touches. Each of them sighs, almost in unison, as memories move like ghosts through their minds. Something about her is different though…
“No wings,” he says.
“She must have her fire back,” she says.
That is the only explanation for why there is one but not the other, as she calls out to them cautiously. Spark tilts her head curiously at the caution, not sure why their childhood friend feels the need for it. Maybe, she is far more perceptive than either of them gives her credit for and maybe she picks up on their great divide… Spear shrugs, the motion still little more than a coltish twitch of muscle between shoulder and wither.
“Yes, it’s us.” he affirms, with a smiling growl of his mouth. “We missed you too!” cries Spark, happier than she has been in hours (days, weeks, months even), as she presses up close to their friend and nuzzles her shoulder. Her lovely face falls a little as her lips land upon a scar where a scar ought not to be, “Lily, your wings…” she trails off, unable to go on as her lips soothe little psalms of love and apology over the puckered edges of skin.
In only a moment, all my hesitation is gone. Spear smiles, Spark lights up and embraces me, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel at home. It’s been too long, my only company the fire and the pain that travels in its wake, but just a moment in the presence of my childhood friends and I feel...me again.
Spark’s lips touch one of the angry scars along my back, and the sympathy in her voice reaches out and touches an ache buried deep in my chest, somewhere the fire can’t quite reach. Somewhere that belongs to the wings that once were mine, if only for a while. I sigh and rub my face against her coat, closing my eyes and drowning slowly in her scent, in the feel of her skin against me. “Gone,” I agree, and the muscles along my back twitch, trying to reposition wings that are no longer there.
It’s been months, and I still dream of them. And of the fire burning them away, the smell of searing flesh and charred feathers, the sound of muscle sizzling and popping, bones cracking and turning to ash. I shudder, then snort and shake off the memory. Not today. Today is a joyous reunion.
“My fire is back, though,” I tell them, though I do not demonstrate. I’m not quite braced for the pain that comes with it, not quite ready for the sympathy in mismatched eyes as I’m forced to bite back a scream. No, not just yet. So instead of showing them, instead of bringing my fire friend out to play as I would have done in days long past, I merely smile and nestle a little more into Spark, and look over to Spear and reach out to touch my lips to his shoulder. “And so are you.”
