"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 may have meant it as a rhetorical question, but she doesn’t know what that means. So she says “Yes” - even though she also doesn’t know what would be funny about it. Still, there’s an easy way to check to see if they’re talking about the same angel - it is a name she had known even when she was her monstrous self. “Ryatah?” She asks quietly, watching him for a reaction. “She is my mother’s mother.” The black mare has not had a chance yet to learn about all the different names for relations. It would be much easier to be able to say that, if they were speaking of the same mare, that meant that he was her uncle instead of calling him her mother’s brother, or mother’s mother’s son. Both of which are how she attempts to follow the path of their bloodline in her mind.
It does not nauseate her the way it should to think that she and her mother had eaten someone they were related to. It wouldn’t be the first time. She remembers watching her mother try to eat the weaker siblings when they had been born wrong - and she simply understood that was the way things were. And had only been jealous that she did not get to partake in such easy meals.
There is, however, a new side to her guilt now and she shifts a little uncomfortably.
The next question takes her a little bit by surprise, but she considers it very seriously before answering in her slow and careful voice. “It is harder.” The first few days of hunger when she hadn’t been able to hunt, had been sick when she had found the remains of someone else’s kill and tried to eat it. And finally settled on observing what the other horses ate and mimicking their behaviour. “I do not like the ghosts.” She states, gesturing to the small stars that orbit her.
“But… it is nice to not be so angry.” Even if there was a bliss in only being able to feel one thing.
“And to dream.” A light comes into her dark eyes as she thinks of her dreams. “Not always happy dreams, but I like when they are.”
His head jerks up when she mentions Ryatah’s name, eyes going wide. A grin spreads across his lips before disappearing just as quickly when the implications of her words sink in. “Yeah,” he replies slowly, eyeing her in a suddenly new light. “So you’re my…” he runs it quickly through in his head, “niece.”
“Holy crap!” There’s a moment of stunned silence, then he laughs. It’s not a quick laugh, but rather a rolling belly laugh with an almost hysterical quality to it. But then, it’s not every day one learns they’ve been eaten by their own sibling and niece. And Cassian being Cassian can’t help but see the hilarity in that kind of revelation.
When he finally manages to compose himself and shift the conversation to something much safer, he has to work to suppress the chuckles that keep wanting to sneak up his throat. At least until Nostromo responds and reveals that she doesn’t like the ghosts.
Frowning, Cassian’s gaze shifts to the tiny balls of light floating around her body. He eyes them curiously. They don’t look like ghosts, but what does he actually know? Angelic halo and strange ability to be reborn aside, he knows nothing of the afterlife. He doesn’t remember anything about what comes after death aside from a seemingly endless gray mist before he’s sucked back into his newly minted, childish body.
He nods when she continues, revealing her newfound lack of anger and ability to dream. Anger is not something Cassian has a lot of experience with, but it sounds exhausting. His mind, however, is immediately drawn back to the ghosts, curiosity overwhelming. He shouldn’t ask, especially after she said she doesn’t like them, but of course he does anyway. “So do the, uh, ghosts talk to you? Is that why you don’t like them?”
Niece, he calls her - and she adds another thing to the small list of titles she can claim. Daughter, monster, and now niece. Her instincts tell her this is a good thing - she’s always been devoted to family, after all, even if it was in a rather violent and mindless way for most of her life.
He seems stunned by the news that they are family only for a short moment before he bursts into laughter. She doesn’t understand why he’s laughing, but the boisterous sound of it brings a smile out of her too.
When speaking about the ghosts, though, that smile is not present.
“They don’t talk when I'm awake but...” The black mare responds as she frowns at the small lights, wondering if they were supposed to talk. She only hesitates a moment before continuing her thought, only thinking to answer honestly and not that sometimes it's better just to keep things to yourself. “In the bad dreams they scream like when they died.” The echoes of the noises each of her victims had made as she had torn them apart.
His voice is one of them, but this at least she keeps to herself.
“They follow me, and sometimes… sometimes they move things and I trip.” Learning how to walk without the balance of her prehensile tail had been a difficult task, though she had managed it. Now she could move around almost gracefully when there weren’t stones or sticks or branches gravitating towards her - striking her in the face or placed in her path.
Her voice is forlorn but accepting when she adds quietly. “I deserve their hate.”
There is something about being born magicless for all practical purposes that forces one to develop other talents. Despite Cassian’s levity, the one that had come most naturally to him was understanding others. Developing rapport even with those most seemed to avoid. Of course, that hadn’t worked terribly well when he’d been eaten, but he likes to think that was an isolated incident.
Now that she has a face he can understand however, it’s easy to read the recrimination and self-loathing in her unguarded expression. The regret.
With a frown, his gaze flicks to the lights bobbing around her as she speaks of their screams. He doesn’t know magic, but he does know trauma. And something tells him she has no clue how much of her own she is swimming in. He doesn’t say anything though, that same something telling him she probably wouldn’t understand even if he did.
As much as he might see and understand, he is hardly an expert in these kinds of things. And he’s not sure how much help he actually could be anyway. Besides, he’s really not sure what to make of her declaration that they move things to trip her.
“You have nightmares of their deaths,” he repeats thoughtfully, eyes still darting between her and the lights. Then the smallest smile crosses his lips, sympathy etched into his dark features. After a moment, he admits softly, “I have nightmares sometimes too.”
Her last quiet admission is what affects him the most however, the broken words squeezing at his heart as he takes an instinctual step closer. He wants to offer comfort in the only way he knows how, with his touch and acceptance, but he’s not sure she would want him to touch her. That is what stops him before he can take a second step. Instead he frowns, then shakes his head.
“No one deserves hate,” he finally says, brown eyes kind as they rest on her. “I don’t hate you.”
There is some brief comfort in hearing that someone else has nightmares too - she’s never thought to ask anyone before. It was easy to assume that a fault existed within her and not in the greater world. How universal could her experiences be, after all, when going from what she was born as to what she is now?
It seems she might be more horse-like than she originally feared - and maybe that means there is a chance for her to have a life (whatever that may look like) on this otherside.
All these relatively pleasant thoughts and the soothing feeling of being understood are short lived because she cannot help the horrible idea that spreads like rot through her brain. Does he dream about that day, and does that mean while she’s being tormented by her own ghosts, he is being tormented by her?
She doesn’t know what to do with these poisonous thoughts when they occur so they continue to seep into her mind regularly.
She should say thank you - that seems like it should be the polite thing to do when someone says they don’t hate you. But the weight of the memories is still too heavy on her heart so instead she looks at him with a troubled expression in her dark eyes. “Why not?” Hope is such a new feeling for her - she still does not recognize it when it lights a small warm flame in her heart. She does not believe him, but she thinks it would be nice either of his statements about hate were true.
If she had asked, he would have lied and said he didn’t have nightmares about that day. He would have done so without a qualm, because even though he should blame her for it, he doesn’t. The longer they talk, the more clear to him it becomes that she held no malice towards him. He thinks she might have been driven by instincts he can’t possibly understand. The same instincts that make falcons hunt songbirds and wolves hunt deer.
Of course, those aren’t his only nightmares, so that would have made it easier. He had died before after watching his own twin die. Those nightmares are worse. But worst of all are the ones of his own making. The ones of his own heartbreak. Those are the dreams he dreads the most. The reason he doesn’t sleep at night.
But she doesn’t ask, so he doesn’t tell her. He might be an oversharer on the best of days, but even he doesn’t want to voluntarily dredge up the tales that haunt his sleep. It’s almost a relief that she latches onto his admission of his lack of hatred instead. A relief, because that is much easier to talk about, even if the answer is more complicated.
He shrugs at her question, glancing past her as his features settle into a thoughtful expression. “I just don’t,” he replies. His lips purse for a moment when he recognizes how inadequate a response that must be. Blowing out a breath, he returns his gaze to her and adds, “I guess it’s probably because I already forgave you, even before I knew you regretted it.”
