"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
He stood at the summit of a shallow knoll, staring at her. She was a young one, black but tipped in the bright crimson of blood from a shallow cut. Children were often so loud and rambunctious, romping around together and giving the word "horseplay" its proper meaning. This one though, just held quiet on her own. No mother or father kept a close watch on her, no sibling for a guard. Just her and her wicked shadow blending with the night.
His eyes bore into her. Even from this distance she felt it and intuitively turned her gaze to where he stood. He said nothing, made no move. Only stood there with twisted tendrils dripping with seawater, dark blue-gray eyes watching her wordlessly without expression.
He didn't particularly like children. This filly out on her own, at the peak of night no less, intrigued him just a little. He must be growing far too bored. Though, he was curious how she'd respond. Would she be frightened as her mother would have raised her to be? Would she run on home to seek her safety? Would she scream first? Surely she wouldn't be stupid enough to try a polite conversation like some perky dimwit.
No, he didn't think she'd do that. She didn't have the right look in her eye. There was something else there. Something he couldn't quite place.
He forfeited his haunt and headed for her in a steady, unhurried pace. His stare was locked on to her, never leaving her eyes. Let her watch, let her see him come. Would she fear him and run? His face was unreadable as he halted before her, close enough to touch if he reached out far enough. He observed her silently for a few moments longer, then smiled slowly with just a minuscule quirk of a brow.
Hello, little darling.
@[Lilitha]
come down to the black sea swimming with me go down with me, fall with me, lets make it worth it
Fire burned in her veins, begging to be let out, to be unleashed. Set free to dance along her skin, to spark with the racing of her heart, to ignite with the force of her fury, anything. And it was so hard to ignore the desperate, aching yearning that hummed and thrummed with the rush of blood and fire through her veins, spreading to every cell of her body, whispering, murmuring, crooning sweet little nothings in her ear.
She could never resist for long.
Each time she gave in, though, pain flooded her senses, drowning the need for the flame beneath the weight of endless agony, a vicious torment that cackled with glee, that sneered with sick satisfaction as she writhed and squirmed and beg--no. Not begged. She never begged.
She would never beg.
To beg would be to let that bitch win.
Even months after the fire had returned and devoured them in bitter conflagration, she still ached for the sky. Once, she had been happy with the fire dancing around her, slinking around her legs, flickering along her skin, warming her in a shower of sparks. Now she sometimes dared the torture and coaxed the fire into the shape of wings sprouting from the old scars along her back, just to feel like she had them once again. Even if the fire was not solid enough to lift her, even if she felt no fluttering of the breeze rustling her feathers, she still dreamed of what was gone.
Would she always dream of what was gone?
Fire, father, wings, childhood, home, all devoured in their god’s vindictive cruelty, warped or twisted or stripped away from her because she had refused to believe she deserved what Beqanna had wrought. Lilitha’s lip curled in disdain, gold eyes glaring at the world around her, daring it to throw something more her way. And why not? She had not recanted. She would not recant. She would not apologize, would not grovel at Beqanna’s feet and beg for mercy.
Rage warred with the fire in her veins, burning too hot, searing her insides until she ought to have been no more, burned to ash in the heat of it. Still she stood, the firelight only flickering in her eyes instead of flowing across her skin and down her mane and tail, instead of dancing in the air around her, sparks taking on lives of their own in a jubilee she’d once known so well.
What a joke. Such innocent naivete could not survive a world so cold.
Nor had it.
She felt his eyes on her and stood a little taller, defiance written in the flare of her nostrils, the arch of her thick neck, the cool, calm way she slowly turned her head to meet his gaze. He was too far away and it was too dark for her to see the color, just some indeterminate shade of pale in the moonlight, but that same light gleamed along his wet skin, dripping from his mane, running in rivulets down the hard muscles of his neck and shoulder. Some fell splashing to the ground, while others caressed his limbs, licking along his skin on their way back to the earth.
She let her gaze travel everywhere the water touched him, working her way slowly from head to toe and back again as he ambled toward her, stopping just at the edge of touching distance. Then he stood before her, his eyes (blue-grey, they were the color of the sea) watching her with the same intensity she’d turned on him. And when he greeted her with such a sweet little pet name, she tilted her head, mirroring the tiny smile on his face back at him.
He eyed her closely, analyzing for any reaction to him. Cool, calm, defiant. Steady. Not the trembling fear he'd expected of one so young. No screams or fretful glances for an escape route. Like an obsidian statue, she held stoic and solid. Fearless. Just as sharp.
Her eyes absorbed him openly, trailing along all his dark, wet muscles. His eyes lit with curiosity, intrigued that not only did she not retreat, but seemed to make an advance in her own way. She met him stare for stare, with equal intensity, roved his figure boldly as if she had any idea what that could mean. Even matched his little smile with her own. Her unexpected response to a him tickled at his senses, and his smile grew just a mite.
"Hello yourself," she said easily. Just as smooth as his own voice. Confidence and wit seemed to emanate from her in faint, invisible waves.
He had a fleeting image of her beneath the water with him, fiery hair was a glaring flame burning below the tide. Perhaps when she was older, something more. But for now at least, just a fun little fire sprite, in over her head and unaware. There was a beautiful irony there. To entice that image of fire into his cool depths. Maybe he'd even let her live after.
He grinned, a new longing concealed within his eyes.
With fluid grace he slid around her side, touching his muzzle to her withers and spine, gently dragging down her as he circled slowly. Aren't you a bit young to be about on your own? he asked casually. He rounded to her other hip, testing her boundaries and brushing at her warmth faintly before completing his circle at a more polite distance. He hesitated when he drew even with her cheek, but remained apart and instead moved to her front again, his shoulder level with her chest by a few feet.
He flicked his tail idly to the side in a wet slap against his leg as he considered her. What fun she might yet turn out to be. Perhaps she had the potential to stay awhile, to be the closest to him and survive it.
come down to the black sea swimming with me go down with me, fall with me, lets make it worth it
