"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
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 ------------ but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever
He doesn’t know who he is, without them. He builds his identity on other things – on monsters and magicians and oh, his perfect son – and then they are gone and he is left behind, hollow. He doesn’t know how to be, how to move and act and think without someone to kneel before, someone to worship, in whatever form that takes. He is meant to belong to others, and when the others are gone, he is simply…there. Still, he moves, because if he stands still for too long he thinks he might go mad, teeth gnashing and screams building, so he walks and twists and turns and moves with no plan in mind. Today it’s the meadow, and it’s spring, flowers blooming and he is alone. The turmoil is not so obvious on the outside – Rapt is handsome enough, golden as sunlight, a strength to his build (a remnant of the draft breeding of his grandfather). He’s desert-bred, but prefers the richness of the meadows and forests to the aching heat of the sands. There’s a smile on his face, tight and false, but there. He pretends that he is not hollow, that he is the kind of man who is capable of making something of himself, that he doesn’t long to kneel before whoever would have him.
I'm every nightmare you've ever had, I'm your worst dream come true.
It’s been awhile since he’s left the forest.
Once a wanderer, he now stays secluded in his kingdom, the copper canopy waving overhead. Political tension is high, and he feels a deepest need to protect what is his; whatt is his people’s.
They have nowhere else to go. Nowhere that could possibly give them what they crave. So he sits, and he waits, and he runs off those who trespass. He isn’t much for keeping on the good graces of the rest of the kingdoms, because he doesn’t respect them. His mind just can’t comprehend peace, it doesn’t make sense to him. What’s the fun in it?
He doesn’t know what brings him to the meadow. He doesn’t care about spring, about flowers or sunshine. He just found himself doing what he’d always done when he gets bored - roaming.
Across the clearing, a flash of gold catches his icy eyes. A brow raises in curiosity at the other stallion, as he watches the tightness of his smile and the tenseness of his body as he walks. Mortem decides maybe he should (try to) recruit some more horses to Sylva. Maybe this one would be of some use.
He trots over, gazing up at the creature in front of him. “Hello,” He says when he’s finally within reach. “What brings you the meadow today? What do you seek?”
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 ------------ but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever
The other stallion surprises him – Rapt is used to being ignored. He doesn’t factor into anyone’s day to day, and there is nothing garish about him – he’s handsome enough, but not stunning, and he’s traitless, no wings or horns or deeper powers to catch the eye or draw them in.
But the stallion – dark, save for a strange tumescence of red on his nose – approaches, asks him a question. What do you seek?
Rapt wants to say, if I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be here.
Everything he seeks is abstract – a feeling he can’t articulate, a homesickness for places that do not exist, the desire to bend his knee to monsters and queens who want him for a moment, but are quick and eager to cast him aside.
He seeks nothing, because how do you seek a monster who will ignite fear in your heart and make you feel alive?
(Or: how do you admit such a wont to a stranger? You don’t, that’s how.)
“I live here, I suppose,” he says. It’s as good a home as any. The deserts were home, once, but that was years and reckonings ago. He doesn’t have desire for anything else.
“I seek…” he trails off. Everything and nothing. Names crowd his throat but he swallows them down.
“Peace, I think,” he says, finally, “I seek peace.”
He nods to the stallion then, a backward greeting, having already answered the questions.
“My name is Rapt,” he says, “and what brings you here, stranger?”
05-23-2018, 07:27 PM (This post was last modified: 05-23-2018, 07:29 PM by Modicum Mortem.)
Mortem's mind could not comprehend "peace." His entire life, up until this point, had been one giant cesspool of chaos. He thrived on it, fed off the pain and hardship he could inflict upon another being. So when the stranger admits what he seeks, the clown is shocked at himself when he does not leave. He only stands, head nodding slowly up and down, trying to ponder such a thing. What was peace to the golden stallion? What was peace to him?
He guesses what is peaceful in his mind (murder, rape, torture, what have you), could have a completely different meaning in the mind of others. Maybe part of bringing someone to his homeland was understanding what they wanted.
"I am Modicum Mortem," He offers blankly. "You can call me Mortem, or Morty. I guess I seek..." What was he here for again? "Citizens, for my kingdom. Or visitors, if they aren't so inclined to join right away." He is surprised just how diplomatic he can be, and he wonders how the stallion will react to his reply.
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 ------------ but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever
He seeks peace, yet couldn’t define it, if asked.
He certainly felt peace when he knelt before that monster, peace in the knowledge that this was his purpose to serve, to be used, to be fodder for things so much greater than he. There was peace to it, and happiness, feeling vital.
And he felt peace when it was him and his son, alone together, talking about any manner of things. It was so different, but such a similar feeling – that this was a purpose.
He doesn’t know of the other stallion’s love for chaos, of his misdeeds. He only knows him as a stranger in the meadow. So he smiles, polite.
“You’re a king, then? Of where?” he asks. He’d been son of a prince, though Caius had never ascended to anything higher – bloodlines no longer dictated the rulers of kingdoms, which was surely a good thing (Caius would have made a poor ruler, and Rapt himself an even worse one).
Perhaps he should know – but Rapt cares not for politics, he’s only distantly aware of the kingdoms and their ever-changing rulers, he has never made it his business to know who rules where.
