"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
‘Atlantia,’ he says, and she looks for him by turning her cheek across the curve of her shoulders. She’s drawing ripples in the water that echo out beneath the tips of her glass wings, and behind her, a mountain peak is reaching out into the sky and threatening to pull it into everything else – until snow, and rock, and water, and girl are all one.
‘Atlantia,’ he says.
And it’s so dark then when her eyes first flutter open that she isn’t certain she isn’t still dreaming, but then the soft shadows of their bodies come to light around her. They are sleeping soundly in the yellowed mounds of fallen leaves with buckled knees and tangled limbs, and the only sound for miles is the gentle sigh of their chests as they heave with every hearty exhale. And for a long while she is still, blinking softly into the darkness as her eyes adjust. And for a long while she aligns her breathing with theirs, and feels their hearts beating in sync.
At last when she scrambles to her legs she is careful that the friction of her movement against the leaves doesn’t wake them. They wouldn’t want her to leave in the dead of night, but she must. They wouldn’t want her to leave in the dead of night, but she doesn’t have a choice.
Because she loves them, but she doesn’t know who she is without them.
Because she loves them, but there are things that she remembers that she knows she should not.
And those memories, they’re as fragile as the snow, and they drift around her by the thousands but are lost long before she can ever hold them in the palms of her hands for long enough to see just what they’re made of (what she’s made of). What choice does she have but to chase them? Because she remembers the lilac petals of a wildflower that doesn’t grow in the places that she knows, and she calls it waterleaf.Because once the sky was a gentle pink like the soft flush of pale skin, and she remembers the way the diffused light looked along the angles of his face.
Because she remembers that someone she’s never met once looked right through her skin like he knew exactly what she was made of.
They wouldn’t want her to leave, but maybe he would.
atlantia
this is a poem about
how you never get the kiss you want
when you want it;
ok yea, he was managing to get a little annoying to say the least. His blue mane and tail flashing about the land as if the whole of Beqanna was his. Not like he had much else to do anyways. Hither and thither.... what the hell is that word? With a grunt he shakes out his mane. By now his wings were exhausted and needed a break from flying. How many times had he traveled, here, the forest, the feild, the dale, the golden plains, the mock grounds. It is exhausting and all of this he has managed to do in one year. Who would think it comprehendable? Certainly not him.
Not like he is of any use to anyone anyways. The dissapointing exotic creature seemed to be developing a bit of a temper, and with it his pride. He wasn't violent, thank the fairies, but he was finding himself coming up a little short with his patience. Maybe a little too short. There is of course no way to tell. But today he is in a good mood. Why? He doesn't know... The weather? His energy spent? The sunny disposition of those around him? Eh no use in trying to figure it out.
No he decides instead to take a leasurely stroll. One that led him to the meadow, mulling over some tender flower shoots. The flavor filling his whiskery maw with the delicious texture. He shakes out his mane snorting pleasantly through his nostrils. Each step taking him closer to a unknown mare.
He doesn't realize it to focused on the clover below his hooves. Until he runs right into her jolting his head up, Sorry, I didn't see you there He bows his neck in greeting. Hopefully he didn't injure her Are you alrgiht?
Way to go Phaedrus, your doing it again. He closes his eyes if he had hands they would be giving him a face palm. How rude of me, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Phaedrus Yea the humdrum idiot was being his normal dumb ass dissapointment once more. I guess agressive streaks can never last.
Phaedrus
DEATH GIVES US SLEEP, ETERNAL YOUTH, AND IMMORTALITY
01-24-2016, 03:37 PM (This post was last modified: 01-24-2016, 03:52 PM by Atlantia.)
…
It’s midnight in the meadow, and the wind rolls through an ocean of dried grass and makes it move like tides. It’s midnight, and the moonlight is all that lights her path. It’s midnight, and she knows because he likes to meet her at this hour. He calls it limbo. He says at midnight you are right between the past and the future, and something inside of him finds comfort in that.
He comes. He always does.
He’s a silhouette in the dark until he’s right before her, nose-to-nose.
“I know who you are,” she says, and she’s shaking – like her bones are only cartilage, like she can’t possibly bear the weight of herself for one more moment. And maybe she can’t.
“How long have you known?” He asks her, and he moves in closer than she wants him to and consequently feels her heart stammer behind her ribs. His flesh is gold and silver, but his eyes are cold black.
“Always, I think.” She answers, still quaking as she remembers all the times she’s noticed him. He was rarely ever center stage, but he was always there. He was a familiar face in a sea of strangers. He was always there in the background of everything else. Always. Always. Always.
“How long have you been watching me?” She asks, even though she already knows, even though the answer is there inside her, like ice instead of marrow in her bones.
“Always,” he says, and he smiles – and it scares her.
…
It comes like a flash flood, this memory, and it drowns her. She had come here to search for him, but she isn’t certain that it’s right to, that she isn’t searching out her own ending. His flesh was gold and silver, but his eyes were cold black. She moves to turn around. She moves to travel back to her sleeping family waiting in the yellowed leaves. And then it freezes her, that old familiar stammer in her chest, because something comes on the horizon in the dark like a shadow and everything inside of her believes it to be him.
Panic coats her flesh in sweat because he shows no signs of stopping, because he comes closer and closer and closer. She wants to run, but her legs have grown roots into the earth that hold her in place. She wants to cry out, but her throat is empty.
And then at last he is before her, and they are skin-to-skin, and the weight of his body hurdles her backwards some steps. And then at last the moonlight catches him, and his hair is blue instead of silver, and his flesh is black instead of gold.
“Are you alright?” He says. She isn’t certain.
“Oh,” she breathes, and she wonders if he can feel the fear pour out of her body and spill onto him with her breath.
“I’m Phaedrus,” He says, and now she has almost regained her composure. Almost.
“Atlantia,” she answers, quietly glancing across the dip where his neck meets his shoulders so she can see the horizon behind him. There in the trees the flash of movement and the glint of metal startles her, and she wonders if it’s midnight. It is.
“Why are you here?”
atlantia
this is a poem about
how you never get the kiss you want
when you want it;
02-04-2016, 03:55 AM (This post was last modified: 02-06-2016, 12:03 PM by Phaedrus.)
He steps back a little giving her her space. The night air is pleasantly chilly, and it ruffles her mane in the most amusing ways. He can't help but offer a gently smile. His wings fold to his body and he lowers his head a bit sheepish. Her reply has his concern tingling in the back of his mind. Clearly she doesn't want to talk of it though.
Can I help? Its the least the clutz can offer. And then she spills her name. He smiles once more. Lovely name. baratone vocals hum with the breeze. He swallows clearing his throat of all the grass he had just finished chewing. His tail flicking at his hindquarters.
Just thought I would take a stroll. Get some quiet time away from the herd. Stretch my legs. You know. He pauses hoping that he wasn't completely boring her to death. His head cocks to the side warm brown eyes inviting for curiousity. You? He keeps it simply his ears perked in interest.
Well her answer had to be more interesting than his own. Still, he wasn't sure how to proceed his wings flutter at his sides, the creek gurgling in the distance. The birds.... well it was to late for birds to be about anyways. Still every once in a while he could hear the scurry of little woodland creatures.
Phaedrus
DEATH GIVES US SLEEP, ETERNAL YOUTH, AND IMMORTALITY
OOC: sorry this post is kinda blehh. Promise they do get better. @[Nev]
She does need space, but not from Phaedrus. She does need space, but from what lingers in the edge of the meadow flashing blinding sparks of silver at her eyes.
“Can I help?” He asks her.
Could he? She doesn’t think so, not when she can’t even say out loud what haunts her. She does need space, but space from midnight. She does need space, but space from his calculative black eyes that hunger for something in her that she doesn’t have to give.
Space from ‘always’…
He must mean well when he asks, but he also must read it in her eyes that she’s not interested in talking (not about this; him), because he moves on after shifting his wings. Her own wings are at her side, basic black, because even though she remembers a time when they could change at her will she has not quite mastered the craft of it in reality.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she answers him, which is true. She feels proud of herself for answering without lying. It isn’t often that she can anymore.
“Too much noise.”
And that was also true, even if not in the way that he’ll think she means. He’ll assume she slept akin to a creek that bubbled laughter as it ran across the rocks. He’ll assume that the wind was howling in her ears, calling her out of her dreams.
He won’t assume that the noise was in her head.
He won’t know how loud memories can be.
atlantia
this is a poem about
how you never get the kiss you want
when you want it;
Its cold, a icy sense of darkness hanging in th air. Almost as if someone... something is present. Something not fully aware or wanting to be noticed. As to which, it seems to not be to keen on deciding. Its a familiar cold, a cold from memories past. That eerie sense of being the third wheel to some concept so far beyond your own capacity to understand that it leaves you speachless. Chilled in the bones, almost you could say, blank.
A shift of his feathered wings and she responds breaking the crickets meloncholy trill with her a soft lyric. Its not harsh, completely otherworldly. The words sneeking up almost out of no where. A sort of warmth that makes the chill seem stronger. As if the bone cold thing emits itself from her. Or that it surrounds her like flies to a light.
He nods to her, I am sorry to hear that. He assumes that he must not be bothering her, otherwise wouldn't she have displayed some form of animosity?
So far she has not and he takes it as an encouragement. Maybe the lady just needed to get her mind off things. She appears stressed. Her eyes full of something, something that he couldn't pick out. And from the looks of it she wasn't really into discussing her private business with strangers. So as quicklky as they started he changes the topic. Something slightly more pleasant. But not to obvious at the same time.
His eyes graze over her form swiftly trying to find something to take their attention before the silence stretched to long. As soon as he does so he spots her wings. With a quick little grin, he lifts his head a little with pride. Well he accomplished something within a timely manner for that matter. So he continues lightly.Do you enjoy taking to the skies often? He wanted to offer a flight with her, but he is completely aware that some do not apreciate their wings as others do. So politely he begins, before he made a blunder of himself, and offer to take a flight when that is not within her interest.
Phaedrus
DEATH GIVES US SLEEP, ETERNAL YOUTH, AND IMMORTALITY
