"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
The world is crisp- a sounding crack upon his universe. Things are shifting and changing, as they are wont to do- but he feels it deeper. He feels the rift between he and Greta (her obedience straying thin). He feels his connection to Beqanna like a thin thread of web. There is no reason for him to stay quite longer. It is such a weary and tiresome thing, to keep returning and staying longer still.
And yet, he is here. All four hooves on the ground, mind (mostly) in tact, and waiting for what comes next. What could possibly be next? What could come that he has not seen, felt, experienced, maneuvered? Magic is the epitome of what most want- but what weariness it is to carry. To live forever, to watch worlds burn and begin again, watch your children die and your enemies burn. It all churns the same.
And so he stands- almost adrift in the tawny leaves beneath his feet. The seasons come, the seasons go- and he shifts them beneath his soul. Green grass, then adrift with flowers, fading to brown, then a sheet of snow- and back again, and back again. He waits.
10-19-2020, 02:02 AM (This post was last modified: 10-19-2020, 03:54 AM by Ryatah.)
what have I done, with my heart on the floor,
I must be out of my mind to come back begging for more --
She does not really notice the changes in Beqanna anymore. She is a selfish creature lost in her own world, immersed in her own romances and tribulations, and willfully ignorant to the tides the rest of the land must bend to. Her world did not seem to share the same orbit as the rest. She has adapted to this new Beqanna but only marginally so; there wasn't much need when the sun and the moon and the stars of her world were all from her past.
He is apart of her orbit, one of those stars that she only passes every now and then but is drawn to whenever he does.
She is different every time that they cross paths, and this time is much the same. Last time she had been porcelain and lovely in her plain way, with striking, newly-granted sable-colored eyes. And now, she is radiant and glowing, with gold-touched wings and a halo brimming with light above her head, illuminating the two glittering diamonds in the hollows of her sockets.
“Eight,” she recognizes his magic, the gravitational pull of it and easily distinguishes it from all the other magicians she has encountered. She says his name with an easy smile, unafraid as she so stupidly often is, drawing close to him as a moth might to the flame. “You're still here,” she says, a statement and not a question, but the curiosity is still there. He had never struck her as the type to linger just for the sake of it, and she wonders what, if anything, has anchored him here.
-- ryatah.
I was catching up on posts I owed and then I did this instead
10-30-2020, 11:49 PM (This post was last modified: 10-30-2020, 11:50 PM by Eight.)
eight
Every decade there is a ‘new’ world. Maybe it is a century? Maybe it is an eon? He does not know anymore. There is always something new. He is never quite adapting- always only conquering and resigning in lack of interest. How can something keep your intentions anymore? How can love or loins or lust thrust you to the ground and call this home? How do you conquer something you have no desire to be in? But isn’t that just the knack of it- living forever and continuing to (somehow) keep on?
Isn’t that just the thing of it- of living forever, being constantly bound to this ephemeral curse of a land- you always run into those you once found. And today? Today it is you, Ryatah. The constant shifting, the divided lands, the things we once knew and now do not- it all convenes into here and now, a long lost parting that succeeds into a greeting. Rinse, repeat, let go.
You are born anew once again - forever looking different, a shifting shade in the past and present (and future?). Some things always change (you, you, you) and some things will always stay the same (him). Change is visceral; but it cannot pierce something you know into your bones. You are no different, truly, from the first day he met you- gnarled eyes and yawning spaces where things should be. You can paint a picture in many colors, but the canvas will still be stretched taught below.
“Somehow still, somehow will always be.” It is languid and casual, a cat curling between your legs- for he had seen your milky aura coming closer- gleaming gems where sight should be, gold singing on the horizon, a crooked crown where love shouts be. “You look different. A pointed pause. “Again.”.
He has remained somewhat of a mystery to her, the puzzle piece that she can never seem to find the place for. Most have woven themselves into her life so tightly that she could not break the bonds forged in blood and pain and love even if she had wanted to. Eight was like a shadow, something that could be seen but never touched, always slipping through her grasp. He was both there and not there in a way that she found almost maddening if she were to let herself linger on the idea for too long, so of course, she does not.
She pretends she is content for things to be the way that they are, and not at all slightly curious at how a heart like his worked.
“Something must keep you here,” she responds in a way that suggests a certain idleness, though the tilting of her haloed head and the focus of her gemstone-gaze on him says otherwise. There is another tendril of her silvery laugh, quiet and short when she adds, “Or is this just where you visit after conquering lands elsewhere?” She has not left Beqanna since she arrived, over a hundred years ago, and sometimes she wonders what would happen should she try. Would this entire world that has molded her into all that she is and carved into her bones collapse and cease to exist if she was not here to bear witness to it? How could she be sure this world was still spinning and moving on without her if she was not here to watch it?
“A little different, and somehow the same,” she says in response to his observation. She had seen him last with fresh eyes – brand new eyes that found even the night sky to be too bright. He knew her too when the sockets were scarred and hollow, and though they might glitter now, she is still in the dark. “Blind is blind, even with placeholders.”
R y A t A h
and you can aim for my heart, go for blood
but you would still miss me in your bones
