"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
Most of the group elects to work together - all except for one. He leaves, and a haze separates him, and the sprite accompanying him, from the rest of the group. Everyone else poses questions, feeding off one another’s suggestions one way or another. They come up with a wide assortment of ideas, and there’s a clear excitement to the sprites.
They answer what questions they can immediately - telling Shrykos that they are just specters in the past. No amount of magic can change what happened to Baltia and Stratos but they can still learn from it. Telling Myrna that is where they are - the place where those lands had come from. Telling Famkee that no, there is no magic influencing these groups to do anything they are not willingly doing.
And then, directed by the questions, the scene around them changes.
They show a few skirmishes - a group of youths from both kingdoms out exploring for the day, caught by their parents who let fear spark angry words and a few blows are exchanged before both parties leave with confirmations of their own biases.
The land where the war had been but almost a century before - when herds of land-dwelling horses roam it. They are peaceful, or at least about as peaceful as Beqanna is on a good day. Their home becomes destroyed by Baltia and Stratos because it is somewhere that gives neither one of them the tactical advantage. Those that live here simply became collateral damage - they either chose a side and fought or they fled.
The group from Beqanna overhear a trio of ravens discuss the feud over a shared carcass of a Baltian washed up on shore. They speak of misunderstandings, like some of the group have suggested, but they speak with it without any remorse. They do, after all, see some benefit from when blows become kills.
Those foals that had once snuck to the middle ground to play now secretly meet back up when they are grown, laughing together by the stones - short, stolen moments of peace together that they know cannot last. It is too big of a task for them to change the opinions of two entire civilizations. They take what solace they can and just try not to make things worse. And it works, for a time.
This world spins around the group with a collection of these snapshots and stories as they all move backwards through time. They do not need to go all the way backwards through evolution. Perhaps both Baltia and Stratos did once share a common ancestor, it would certainly make sense, but the moment that actually matters to the task for today happens after that. And it occurs on a beach.
Here, the sprites tell the group, Baltia and Stratos only have vague knowledge of each other. They simply do not mingle - they keep within their own borders. Each perhaps visiting the ground but when both of the kingdoms were much smaller they did not have the same drive to explore beyond their borders. They were, for the most part, content just to exist. Curiosity inevitably always arrives and on this cloudy day, the group watch as a young Stratosian filly lands successfully on the beach - looking very proud of herself for managing it. A Baltian colt is lurking in the shallows, and emerges to get a better look. They both spook each other, but after some cautious investigation they begin to play.
They’ve found their way into a rocky cove as they explore. There is a thin rocky beach, hemmed in by cliffs on one side and surprisingly deep water below. Innocent laughter and games bubbling between them with ease. Neither are accustomed to navigating on the hard earth rocks, nor do they know that their increasing volume is attracting attention.
Giant Rocs roost nearby in the cliffs, and a mother there has hatchlings to feed. She quietly peers down from the top of the cliffs, turning her head to examine the foals below. Her kind hunt Baltians and Stratosians rarely - there is larger and easier prey than horses on the land - but it is not unknown. Like an eagle snatching a fish from the sea or catching another bird mid-flight, they will go for a meal wherever they can.
The Roc’s taloned feet shift on the rocks as it prepares to launch, sending some pebbles and rocks cascading below. A large rock strikes the Baltian colt by sheer awful luck - slamming into his head and the momentum causes him to fall into the deep water. The Stratosian filly, who cannot swim but has spent all day with her new friend, jumps into the water after him - expecting it to be only so deep that she can stand up into it. Instead, she plummets down. The Roc above launches upwards angrily, annoyed at the disappearance of the foals, and more rocks are pushed dowards. They splash into the water, a smaller one striking the filly’s rump and causing her to twist. A larger one hits her and as gravity compels it to sink, it brings the filly down with it. She becomes pinned, too scared or weak to dislodge the stone that has her wing stuck.
The group can do nothing but watch helplessly as she drowns in water mixed with blood.
It is the next day when some Baltians find the remains of the foals. With some handy telekinesis they are able to extract what they can and bring both bodies onto the rocky beach. A shadow from above and a pair of Stratosian’s land. The sprites show how the scene looks to those who have just arrived - a shattered body surrounded by frightening, strong creatures.
A misunderstanding is all it takes, the spark that ignites a fury that will transcend generations. Fear of the unknown mixed with grief is a volatile mix.
The scene pauses as the adults lock furious eyes with one another - the Stratosians seeing their filly drowned and broken, the Baltians so overcome with their own grief they do not know how to explain what has happened to these strangers.
What actually happened cannot ever be changed, the past is written in stone and blood, but the sprites take the group to a version of the past where they can try to alter it. Everyone stands in their own version of this moment - separate from all the others who have come from Beqanna. They stand before the grieving parents - stand feet away from the shattered remains of the foals. In these isolated moments, the parents can see and hear these newcomers.
And it is up to them to change it. They know what is going to happen in the future here, they know that Beqanna’s existence is very real danger if this wound is not mended.
Marten
A veil of hazy clouds rise, obscuring the bay stallion from the rest of the group. They will not see what he does, and neither will he know what they learn together. The sprite near him jitters a little with nervous energy, but it is still connected with its brethren. And united deeper than their magic with their mission to help. They do not know what the path will look like to get to the answer, perhaps this will be one way to get there as well.
What would the sprite show him if he was uninterested in saving the world?
There are many answers to that. The sprite could try to convince him what is worth saving, all the beauties and triumphs and delights that exist in everyday life? Would that move someone like him? But then, that seems like a lot of effort for someone who is not putting in any himself.
The haze condenses around Marten before dissipating and revealing a cove. It is the same one that the others are seeing but Marten is there in that moment, a few short seconds before the Baltian foal is struck dead by the rock and the Stratosian foal hurries to save their new friend. The sprite and Marten will watch it all, following the scene as if tethered to it. They feel and are affected by the environment around them like they weren’t before at the battle. The way that the temperature of the water increases just a little with all the blood that swirls through it, the ripples caused by the rocks that splash down. And they are there beneath the waves when the frightened and battered foal finally drowns.
And then the scene begins again.
A brief summary:
- Everyone But Marten jumped around in time a little bit and learned what moment was the very first catalyst for the grievances between Baltia and Stratos. It's up to them to now step in and change it however they wish. You're anchored to this moment and cannot jump through time any more, but the Sprites can grant temporary traits if you think of something that can assist with your idea (aka message Squirt and she'll tell you yes if it's reasonable).
- Marten's sprite doesn't like his attitude so he was thrown the same day as the others, without being told about its importance. He is also anchored to the moment described for him and will relive it as many times as it takes. He can also be granted a reasonable temporary trait by messaging Squirt.
This is the last round - it will very likely and realistically end Sunday March 19th at 6pm EST
Myrna suffocate the fire i started-------------------- right when it kindles
The thrum of the sprites is nearly tangible, increasing as the company around her makes further inquiries of them. Myrna watches the faces of those that speak up, her pale ears flicking beneath the tangle of her flaxen hair. The flowers are long gone, abandoned with her entrance into the portal.
This encounter, this experience - it requires all of her attention. She spares no thought to her appearance as she looks from the golden dragon to the bejeweled ruby mare who asks, her mind spinning with the implications of each answer the sprites give them.
This place, these Ruins, had been a place like Beqanna. Home to horses who walked the earth - not to equine creatures who nested in clouds or to marine things of the deep. This is what Beqanna will be if they do not succeed. MYrna imagines the tall peaks of Hyaline, drowned below the northern sea, but she cannot think of them long for soon the scene around them changes to help answer ever more questions.
“We saw what happened. It was that thing up there -” She gestures with her nose to the sky, where the Giant Roc circles far overhead. “A rock hit the boy and then the girl jumped in the water. I don’t think she could swim?” Myrna’s blue eyes look to the others with her. They could corroborate her story, she realizes, but what good is an explanation from total strangers who stand in a suspiciously large crowd at the scene of a gruesome tragedy.
She watches as if through the fevered haze of a dream.
There is peace, at first.
Or, at least, a thing that might pass as peace in a world of differing opinions. (Look hard enough, she has learned, and you will always find something worth fighting over. Something worth fighting for.)
In the earliest days the conflicts were mild. Minor disagreements resolved swiftly.
And then.
As soon as she sees the children, she knows.
It puts an ache in her heart simply to see them. They are important, these children, their youthful faces all full of promise. They are innocent, the pair of them, oblivious to the roles they will play in the breakdown of the world around them.
How desperately she wants to call out to them. A feeling that only intensifies when she notices the Giant Roc. The mother-bird who peers down at them while they play. There is a shift and Glean understands with a surge of horror. “No!” she calls to the bird but it is too late, the rocks tumble.
Down, down, down.
Then, in the silence, a sickening crack and the colt crumples. Her breath catches hard in her throat and she watches in abject terror as the colt falls and the filly follows. Her heart constricts and Glean chokes out a strangled sound as the filly sinks.
Down, down, down.
And she blinks and the scene is different. The elders have arrived. They have salvaged the broken bodies from the surf. They lock furious eyes.
Suddenly she is alone with the elders.
“It was an accident!” she cries, uncertain if they’ll hear her or if she is merely a ghost here, too. But they turn their furious gazes in her direction and she blinks in surprise. “It was only an accident,” she says, a little quieter, acutely aware of the heat of their grief and their rage.
“The Roc,” she says and looks up to the ledge where the bird-mother has returned to her nest. “You did this!” she calls to the bird, which merely tilts its head at her, guilt-less, shameless. “Come down here and explain yourself!” But the Roc merely turns her head away.
“They were playing,” she tries, desperate, shifting her focus back to the elders, “they were friends! She tried to save him! The Roc disturbed the rocks and he was struck, thrown into the water, and she tried to save him!” She sucks in a shaky breath.
“You have to believe me,” she pleads, “you have to believe me or one day there will be nothing left of the world but ruin.”
Children, the little beast shows him, without explanation, and he can see plainly who they belong to by the strangeness of their eyes but their importance is lost to him, instead he only feels the smug indifference of someone who doesn't expect to be convinced of anything at all. Yet he jerks violently when the colt is struck, his own vision flashing the bright warning flare of something within gone terribly wrong. He doesn't - and perhaps he should, but he has never meddled deeply in the magic affairs of Beqanna's spirit before - expect the panic that flares up unwarranted in his breast; the girl's worry, the creeping weakness in his knees as the Baltian boy dies. When the Stratosian leaps into the water he staggers in, too, with a barely suppressed cry mimicking the little Stratosian's distress and his own fury at being pulled along on the tide of their misfortune.
He growls out a gurgling curse, trying to pull back but the rocks have already caught the filly's blue-bird wing and bones he doesn't even have are snapped and crushed, turning his black-edged vision red and yellow and any number of colors he cannot name or be sure are real. Without dying, he drowns alongside her, staring desperately at the light refracting through the calmed ocean surface not so very far above their heads. For as long as she can, she holds her breath and his lungs burn with the same fire as hers. His face, unseen by anyone but the Sprite who has followed him, crumbles with the same horror as hers when despite it all, wing still trapped, Stratosian and Beqannan gasp reflexively, unable to stop, unable to prevent the choking cough that follows when their starving lungs glut themselves with seawater instead.
And then, there's nothing. His vision softens at the edges and so does his panic. The girl droops, her expression - one Marten mirrors against his own will which still rages somewhere safe and contained - turned tranquil. She's smiling as if it has all been a grand joke, then she's gone.
(Children, the little beast shows him, without explanation, and he can see plainly who they belong to by the strangeness of their eyes but their importance is lost to him, instead he only feels the smug indifference of someone who doesn't expect to be convinced of anything at all. Yet he jerks violently when the colt is struck, his own vision flashing the bright warning flare of something within gone terribly wrong. He doesn't - and perhaps he should, but he has never meddled deeply in the magic affairs of Beqanna's spirit before - expect the panic that flares up unwarranted in his breast; the girl's worry, the creeping weakness in his knees as the Baltian boy dies. When the Stratosian leaps into the water he staggers in, too, with a barely suppressed cry mimicking the little Stratosian's distress and his own fury at being pulled along on the tide of their misfortune.
He growls out a gurgling curse, trying to pull back but the rocks have already caught the filly's blue-bird wing and bones he doesn't even have are snapped and crushed, turning his black-edged vision red and yellow and any number of colors he cannot name or be sure are real. Without dying, he drowns alongside her, staring desperately at the light refracting through the calmed ocean surface not so very far above their heads. For as long as she can, she holds her breath and his lungs burn with the same fire as hers. His face, unseen by anyone but the Sprite who has followed him, crumbles with the same horror as hers when despite it all, wing still trapped, Stratosian and Beqannan gasp reflexively, unable to stop, unable to prevent the choking cough that follows when their starving lungs glut themselves with seawater instead.
And then, there's nothing. His vision softens at the edges and so does his panic. The girl droops, her expression - one Marten mirrors against his own will which still rages somewhere safe and contained - turned tranquil. She's smiling as if it has all been a grand joke, then she's gone.
Children, the little beast shows him, without explanation, and he can see plainly who they belong to by the strangeness of their eyes but their importance is lost to him, instead he only feels the smug indifference of someone who doesn't expect to be convinced of anything at all. Yet he jerks violently when the colt is struck, his own vision flashing the bright warning flare of something within gone terribly wrong. He doesn't - and perhaps he should, but he has never meddled deeply in the magic affairs of Beqanna's spirit before - expect the panic that flares up unwarranted in his breast; the girl's worry, the creeping weakness in his knees as the Baltian boy dies. When the Stratosian leaps into the water he staggers in, too, with a barely suppressed cry mimicking the little Stratosian's distress and his own fury at being pulled along on the tide of their misfortune.
He growls out a gurgling curse, trying to pull back but the rocks have already caught the filly's blue-bird wing and bones he doesn't even have are snapped and crushed, turning his black-edged vision red and yellow and any number of colors he cannot name or be sure are real. Without dying, he drowns alongside her, staring desperately at the light refracting through the calmed ocean surface not so very far above their heads. For as long as she can, she holds her breath and his lungs burn with the same fire as hers. His face, unseen by anyone but the Sprite who has followed him, crumbles with the same horror as hers when despite it all, wing still trapped, Stratosian and Beqannan gasp reflexively, unable to stop, unable to prevent the choking cough that follows when their starving lungs glut themselves with seawater instead.
And then, there's nothing. His vision softens at the edges and so does his panic. The girl droops, her expression - one Marten mirrors against his own will which still rages somewhere safe and contained - turned tranquil. She's smiling as if it has all been a grand joke, then she's gone.
Children, the little beast shows him, without explanation, and he can see plainly who they belong to by the strangeness of their eyes but their importance is lost to him, instead he only feels the smug indifference of someone who doesn't expect to be convinced of anything at all. Yet he jerks violently when the colt is struck, his own vision flashing the bright warning flare of something within gone terribly wrong. He doesn't - and perhaps he should, but he has never meddled deeply in the magic affairs of Beqanna's spirit before - expect the panic that flares up unwarranted in his breast; the girl's worry, the creeping weakness in his knees as the Baltian boy dies. When the Stratosian leaps into the water he staggers in, too, with a barely suppressed cry mimicking the little Stratosian's distress and his own fury at being pulled along on the tide of their misfortune.
He growls out a gurgling curse, trying to pull back but the rocks have already caught the filly's blue-bird wing and bones he doesn't even have are snapped and crushed, turning his black-edged vision red and yellow and any number of colors he cannot name or be sure are real. Without dying, he drowns alongside her, staring desperately at the light refracting through the calmed ocean surface not so very far above their heads. For as long as she can, she holds her breath and his lungs burn with the same fire as hers. His face, unseen by anyone but the Sprite who has followed him, crumbles with the same horror as hers when despite it all, wing still trapped, Stratosian and Beqannan gasp reflexively, unable to stop, unable to prevent the choking cough that follows when their starving lungs glut themselves with seawater instead.
And then, there's nothing. His vision softens at the edges and so does his panic. The girl droops, her expression - one Marten mirrors against his own will which still rages somewhere safe and contained - turned tranquil. She's smiling as if it has all been a grand joke, then she's gone.)
Despite the brassy vein of apathy running bright in his line, Marten is not wholly immune to the justice the sparking sprite enacts upon him. With all the bullheadedness of his father and his grandmother he resists the lesson for as long as he can. That kernel of autonomy left inside of him in that timeless eternity deflects and defies and, slowly, recognizes the Promethean punishment laid upon him. This is the reward for his arrogance, yet it is not with him that the generational curses of his blood will be solved; at least, it is not today.
Enough already! He screams without speaking, his throat too full of salt and fire. This time when the Roc disturbs the stones he bounds forward even before the rocks can strike the boy, running as if he can outrun Fate. He cannot stop the boulder the crack's the Baltian's skull and sends him sinking into the deep of his home. He cannot stop the bewildering tearing of his senses as the colt dies again but the girl he can stop, and does. His strange gait carries him across the pebbled sand like silk, cutting the feathered girl off from the water. She pulls up suddenly, frightened by his haste and still so full of worry for her friend. Wordlessly, the stallion scowls and pushes her back to safety. He has drowned enough for a thousand lifetimes. She asks a strangled question in a language he doesn't know, standing frozen but alive on the deadly shore.
What would an ocean be without a monster lurking in the dark?
Perhaps she should listen as others voice their thoughts and questions. Some part of her does, her mind filing information away like it always does, paying at least enough attention to scoff at the suggestion that magic influence had caused this war. Oh, how she wishes she had such an excuse. How she wishes she had any excuse for all the blood on her hooves, but she acted out of her own volition, telling herself it was her “duty” to fight a war without reason and without end. How blind, how foolish, she had been. Her duty should have been to end it, consequences be damned. But Rezza had followed in the footsteps of those who’d come before her without thought, doing what she’d thought was right until finally, finally, the cloud had been lifted from her eyes. Too little and too late though.
Her attention snaps back when the sprites start to move them through time, and she watches things she is less familiar with now. Skirmishes she wasn’t part of, though things she had heard about and even scenes with other Baltians she’d known. She sees the land of the ruins before it was ruins, a place she’d seen personally, though she’d never seen it at peace. Now she is face to face with the ghosts of her collateral damage, the innocent lives that were killed as she’d stood by giving suggestions on how to do it. They cannot see her, she knows, but still their eyes seem to bore into her, accusatory. Murderer they seem to say, though the chorus of the dead lives inside her own mind, fueled by guilt.
The visions of the past blur with her own memories, and she sees herself and Helice with their Queen leading other battles, watching their men and women die. She remembers counting dead bodies like one counts blades of grass, as if bored by it. She sees Timais and Tsilitsuli lifeless on the beach, and their death feels more like the beginning of atonement now. Not senseless, but necessary. Perhaps that’s where she belongs too - dead on the beach, ages of hatred and animosity dying with her. Though she feels no hatred for the Stratosians now.
The world spins around her, and she watches what the sprites show and her own memories fill in the gaps until finally they stop on a beach. It’s a place Rezza does not know, a time so far back that there are no stories that come to mind, no horses Rezza might have known that had lived in this timeline. How many centuries have they traversed? The sprites explain that this is a time when Baltia and Stratos barely even knew of each other, which feels like it’s still probably true in a way. What does Rezza know of Stratos except the lies she’s been fed all her life?
But then, the scene unfolds in front of them, and Rezza’s mind stills to watch. Children - this all started with children. Children playing and a horrible accident and a horrendous misunderstanding. There were not just two deaths resulting from this day but thousands upon thousands. Rezza only stares at the scene, these two children dead in the water from a Roc. When the children are finally found the next day, Rezza doesn’t have to guess what will happen. She knows what this looks like. A handful of Baltians - so strange and other - standing around the broken body of a Stratosian child. If any of her knowledge of Stratos is correct, they are a kingdom that values family above most everything else. One dead child might truly be enough to start a war.
Then the sprites adjust the scene so Rezza is no longer a ghost here, giving her a chance to right a wrong, even if this is only make believe. Rezza stands there for a moment longer until the eyes of the adults turn to the Baltian stranger who does not belong with the rest of them. She knows her disadvantage coming into this, a Baltian herself. Why should they trust her? Why would the Stratosians, who are already wary? Why would the Baltians, who know she does not belong here?
Still, if Rezza has ever had a true weapon, it has always been her words. She has spent a lifetime weidling them, leaving death and destruction in her wake. Maybe this time she could manage to use them for good. “I know what this looks like, and I can try to convince you that it’s not what you think but an accident. Two foals playing in the wrong place at the wrong time. The boy was struck by a falling rock, and the girl tried to save her friend. Her friend, because children don’t see as we do - they don’t see how different we look, they don’t worry that strangers might hurt them. No, they see hope and friendship and love.”
She pauses, her eyes wet though she doesn’t cry. No, Rezza has seen far too much for tears, but the idea of hope and love is such a beautiful thing that it may have the power to bring her to tears. Though now is not the time, though emotion creeps into her voice, lending it not weakness but truth and strength. ”If this is what you think, tell me why Baltians would kill their own child? Or why two children would kill one another, or how they even could based on the wounds on their bodies? But even if you don’t believe me, even if this is exactly what it looks like, don’t let it lead to worse. I have seen and lived and contributed to what becomes of Stratos and Baltia in the future. We will tear each other apart. Things start small, but they escalate, and not only do we kill one another but we kill those that stand between us until the seas of Baltia are red with blood and the clouds of Stratos weep with shame.”
Her voice does not falter and it does not break, though if they miss the truth of her words it is not for lack of emotion on her face. “”Leave here today in a way that honors those children. They sought friendship. Give them that and honor their death. Do not let today lead to anger and hostility and ultimately war, for then their deaths are in vain.” She falls silent, knowing that this world is pretend, knowing that what has been done cannot be undone. But still, this moment matters. If she does not succeed, what becomes of Beqanna and the innocent lives there? What becomes of Baltia and Stratos? She does not want to imagine it, and so she stays in this moment, praying that her words work.
I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
Some of their questions are answered, but before he can digest any of it the world dissolves again, changes, and Sleaze is made to bear witness. It’s piecemeal – the land, healed and then disintegrating again, ravens with strings of flesh hanging grotesquely from their beaks, children playing in their stolen moments.
These scattershot images spin away again, replaced by another. Two children, playing, while the ocean churns as fervently as Sleaze’s heart, because even before it happens, he can feel the dread of it, the axis of peace shifting. For why else would they be here?
He watches – he must watch, he must bear witness – as it plays out, a stupid accident, no one’s fault, and his heart hurts at it. He wants desperately to turn away, but he doesn’t. He watches the Stratosians land, listens to the wails of grief fill the air, knowing this is unchangeable—
And then—
And then maybe it isn’t. The rest of the group fade away, and something shifts again. He is corporeal now, able to be seen by the grieving parents, and immediately he feels ill. What is he meant to do? He cannot offer solace, nothing that would offer real healing. He could try to tell them what he’d seen, that it had been a series of unfortunate events but nothing malicious; certainly nothing worth the years of war and loss of life that will come after.
He feels the weight of their eyes on him. He is winged, too, but clearly lacks the traits of the Stratosians. He is unlike both groups, instead simply a single strange being, dark purple and too old for this, a man of too many worlds, worlds that have left him half-mad and—
And monstrous.
He’s felt it ever since he went to that nightmare realm in the clouds, the shadow-thing inside him. How it claws at the surface, sometimes. Begs to be let out.
He thinks. They are still looking at him.
(An aside –
His father knew guilt as well as he knew any lover. Some of the guilt was well-earned – his father was not without a host of sins – but some of it was not, some of it was assumed merely because Garbage has a predilection for it. It was easy, to fall on these swords, even those that were not meant to wound him.
Maybe some things run in the family.)
They are quick to blame. He knows this, he saw as much in the story the sprites showed him.
Could he give them something better to blame?
A monster, perhaps?
He closes his eyes and calls to that monster. It comes eager, the shadow-thing he was cursed with, shifting his body. His body shifts from its solidity into something more transparent, yet still thick, oily- a shadow-smog creature, strange and terrible. He draws himself up, thinks of the monsters he’s known in the past (and there have been many).
He can fall on this sword. He can eat this sin.
He steps toward them. He can smell the blood and early rot of the children’s bodies. He feels sick, but his features are amorphous, swallowed in the shadowy horror his body has become.
“I killed them,” he snarls, and he doesn’t let his voice shake, for he is a monster, is he not?
“They came to my cave, they bothered me, so I killed them.”
It’s a weak story – he is not a good liar – but he hopes they’re too busy looking at his horrific form to pay too much attention to the words, to bother with the logic of his story. He will be their scapegoat, their bogeyman.
He is aware, faintly, that they may come for him, for this. And he would fall, quickly, under their hooves. Would he wake up, then, back in Beqanna? Or never again? It is worth it, he thinks, trying to convince himself, trying to be brave, to do this for them, it will be worth it. If they believe him. If.
Despite the fact that no one moves, he finds himself dizzy and mildly nauseous as the group leaps and pirouettes through time. Still, he is able to receive and digest all of the information supplied at each stop. For an unsophisticated and shiftless man, such as himself, the revelations are nearly overwhelming. Still, when the sprites reveal that they’ve been brought to the same time frame that he’d been wondering about, he begins to find trust in his own capabilities about his role in this ordeal.
Ever the taciturn spectator, he watches the events unfold on the beach without perceptible movements or plaintive wails. Though he’d never been an attentive, let alone affectionate parent, he is as unsettled as any of the others are by the cataclysmic end of both foals. He looks to the sky as the filly eventually succumbs, in part to see where the giant bird has gone, but mostly to control the outward expressions he might be making as a barrage of unfamiliar emotions hammer at his soul. Would he have ever waged war for a child presumed to be struck down by another’s hand? Perhaps at the behest of the mother, but certainly never of his own volition. Would he have mourned such a loss? He has no answer.
His skin prickles with discomfort as the Baltians arrive first and finds that he sympathizes with their sorrow as they recover the bodies. But then the Stratosians descend into the shared nightmare. He shifts his weight as pairs of eyes meet in animus. He is sure he knows what comes next.
But has forgotten the magic that has brought them on this unusual journey.
He senses, more than feels, that the others from Beqanna have vanished from the scene.
An eternity passes in the brief silence.
Then, all hell breaks loose.
The air-dwellers fidget fretfully as they demand answers from the water-bound people. He can see that some are already settling into their own erroneous assumptions. Their volume rises into a cacophony as their anger continues to swell. Meanwhile, several of the Baltians are mute with tears streaming down their faces, while others are loudly trying to claim ignorance of the events preceding their morbid discovery.
A stray thought blindsides him in the moment and he fails to notice that he is much closer to the lamenters than he thought and some of the quieter creatures are looking in his direction.
He had selfishly sought a fragment of Beqanna’s magic, and thus had joined this expedition, because he had learned that he was a stranger in his own home. He had foolishly thought that asking for a shiny new trinket might make him more appealing to those that had been born knowing of these new traits, both physical and mystical.
But now he wishes for some kind of supernatural power for a different reason. He wants a chance to give them a new future, and yes, to save his home from falling into ruin. He wonders if it is possible and how he would even accomplish such a feat. Rewind time, prevent the deaths? That seems unlikely. If only there was a way for these people to pause long enough to allow him the opportunity to bear witness.
He does not see who moves first, but suddenly bodies leap to close the gap that lies between the groups. This is what he had expected when the Stratosians landed, given his knowledge of what the Baltian/Stratosian futures hold. What throws him is the fact that several of the strangers turn their rage on him as well. He rocks his weight back in surprise and feels his feet leave the ground momentarily. When they strike ground heavily, stillness suddenly falls upon the scene.
The sprites have seen fit to grant his wish and everyone, apart from him, seems to petrify wherever he or she stands.
Flummoxed, he steps cautiously toward those that had been barreling towards him. Manes and tails and feathers stir gently but everything else remains motionless in the mild, salty breeze that sweeps around them. He sighs deeply. This is not exactly what he wanted. How is he to speak his piece if everyone is frozen?
He pounds a hoof in frustration and the noise resumes, though a note of confusion quickly replaces that of anger in the multitude of voices.
Now what fresh hell is this?
Everyone remains in place, but their heads move just as freely as their words, which flow fast and furious. Well, it’s better than nothing. He musters the breath in his lungs and shouts as loudly as he can. ”ENOUGH!”
He takes advantage of the startled silence and plunges onward, ”I know you seek vengeance for these children, but there is much for you to learn today. If you agree to stand down and allow me to explain, I will release you.” He doesn’t know if he can do so, but he suspects that this newfound magic will work in his favor. The fervor eventually settles into begrudging whispers, which he takes as assent to his request. With confidence, his hoof lifts and lands sharply back into its place. Some Baltians and Stratosians seem bent on continuing their rampage, but the majority manages to restrain these few and all turn their suspicious gazes to him as he goes to stand between the groups. He looks over the crowd and takes a steadying breath.
”I warn you, if this fighting continues after I leave this place, these two innocent lives will only be the first of many that will be lost to you in the years to come.” He pauses for a moment, wondering how much of their future he should reveal, but then the rumbles of fear and indignation begin.
”What began as comradery between two happy young souls will turn into a nightmare of senseless death. Where I come from, you’ve turned against each other without pausing to understand what truly happened here. The war carries on for centuries and none of your descendants know why the fight began, only that they must continue it no matter the cost. I don’t usually meddle in such affairs, but now my home is at risk of crumbling to ruin because of your incessant need for domination over the other.”
He turns to the Stratosians first. ”Your girl has been obviously bludgeoned and drowned, so you make assumptions of these strangers because they are powerful fearsome creatures of the deep..” He looks to the Baltians. ”But they know even less of the circumstances than you. They arrived mere moments before you and pulled the children from their watery graves. Did you not notice that they are also wracked with grief? Well, of course not. Your own grief seized all rational thought.”
His eyes move to the cliffs where he had last seen the Roc that set motion to the tragedy. ”Your children were murdered, but not by one of either of your kind. They met earlier in the day and became fast friends. Unfortunately, their play led them to this place, where some type of enormous bird up there intended to hunt them both. When it moved to kill, it sent rocks tumbling down the cliffside. One struck the boy and he fell into the water. He didn’t stand a chance. But the girl did not know, so she bravely went in after him. There, she also fell victim to a boulder that eventually pinned her beneath the waves.”
”If I could have stopped it, I would have, but there are some things that fate will not allow us to change.” His breath hitches, hinting at the sadness rising in his throat and hopefully creating an air of sincerity that endears him to his audience.
”I cannot force you to find the same kinship in each other as your children did yesterday, but nor do you have to become enemies this day. I could beseech you on behalf of my country, but why should you care about the fate of a distant land? Instead I ask this.. Are you willing to sacrifice more of your children for a hasty, ill-conceived presumption of guilt? If so, then by all means..”
His head dips and sweeps to the side as he steps back, clearly indicating that he will not stand in their way.
She was wrong. Most of them were, after all. Interpretations of the truth ran sour on her tongue, an awful taste that she didn't care to swallow. Should she choose to be bitter, the strangling feeling is short lived, she doesn't have the time to overthink. Not when jumps through time send her body into a daze that the unicorn is unsure if she'll ever forget this feeling, this pressure to prevent a mass extinction of species lost to senseless war. Every battle, every life she'd taken had meaning, a sense of grounding that brought her closure for her own unresolved trauma. It becomes clearer after each stop in time that this endless war of beqannans, had its meaning, though Famkee is not as attached to these events as her traveling partners. How could she be? She wants to think of her being here, no more than an obligation, she owes this land nothing, having no history inside it's territories or memories to avenge. If she is going to call Beqanna home, playing her part, no matter how small or insignificant she may think, is vital for not only her future, but all the faces that surge through time alongside.
Place after place, unfamiliar and familiar, though only centuries differ the landscapes here, she finds herself on a beach, again. This time, a different sort of chill slithers down her spine as every face she's come to know in this time loop, fades like they were never there at all, ghosts lost in a cosmic dream. This must be the telling moment, she can feel it in her bones. The sprites separate her from the others to soak in the affairs of where this all began, and it's so frighteningly real, like she really is an invisible time traveler, helpless to interfere. Children, a colt and a filly each from the sea and sky, the embodiment of innocence for they do not know the tragic fate that follows. Neither does she, not yet. Though she doesn't shy away from the sight when it comes, she doesn't show much emotion at all other than confusion, watching as the colt is struck by the boulder plummeting into the hungry waves, the filly blinded by panic to retrieve her friend wetting her downy feathers to sink like the rocks below.
Is she insensitive to death, or is it her expectations of the truth that spiral her downwards into discontent. An accident. A grievous one, yet so simple, Famkee ponders. War begins with a reason, and this was theirs, a misunderstanding passed down for centuries of avoidable conflict. More, her sprite shows her as members from each behalf wear hate proudly in their eyes at the discovery of the bodies of their deceased offspring. She knows how this must look to the Stratosians, yes, but to start a war that would last millennia over speculation? Had they already so much hate in their souls for one another that this unfortunate fate hammered the nail in fragile hearts?
She isn't sure the limits of magic inside this realm of time and space, but her sprite continues to leave her in awe of the possibilities. Standing on the beach, Stratosian and Baltian alike in the throes of their disagreements, see her, actually see her observing the turmoil that's unfolded and made an absolute mess of the future. She wants to back up into whatever portal took her here and made her tangible to the eye, but maybe, just maybe she could offer her knowledge. Famkee has never been a diplomat, words were not her strong suit, she wasn't utilized for her speech, rather her body, her actions. Wether they listen, receive her wisdom of the truth, she won't know until she tries. The horned mare is tentative in her small steps forwards, but confident is her voice, certain are her intentions that bleed through golden eyes, helplessly sincere. "Heed my warning friends, for your actions affect not only the fate of your futures, but the whole of beqanna and it's inhabitants." She looks to the deceased foals once more, a sorrowful pinch in her brow. "A tragic accident is who to blame here, I've seen it. And I've come to tell you that this was no one's fault." She steadies her breathing, she can't stop the glowing resplendence of her horn slithering with gold at the passionate scene. "If malicious intent was as you assume, pay closer attention. The colt has blunt trauma wounds, he was struck by a falling rock and his friend," She notions to the filly, lifeless with a point of her velvet muzzle. "not fit for the sea, she tried to save him." Drowned, lungs built for high altitude suffocated under the waters unforgiving current.
She doesn't know how to convince them that this event changes everything. Serious is her face, and she can only hope that the sincerity shows through her energy and breaks the karmic generational carnage to come. "Whatever hate you have in your hearts, hate yourselves for not knowing the truth for your future generations that only know of war and hostility." She can't believe the words as they come, but she means them and that's all that really matters. What weight could she possess in the eyes of strangers, is she nothing more than a hallucination to them? "The fate of Beqanna is in your hands. Make the right choice." The soldier allows the seas breeze to wash over her, wash away every secret kept and out of hiding, exposed to bake on the sand. This is not in her power any longer, she's come to shed light on the truth, and if it isn't enough, as a soldier she would be honored to die trying.
The group continues to spin into different memories, snapshots of peace and stories of love between the sea and the sky until the sprites bring them to a rocky beach. The group is silent as they watch a young Stratosian filly land — this memory seems different, somehow, but Ea can’t place why. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a Baltian colt emerge, startling the filly and himself. They begin to play, finding their way to a rocky cove.
She watches the scene take place in horror, eyes wide, unable to look away.
She takes a frantic step forward, towards where the children fall and blood rises to the water’s surface, but stops herself. She cannot change this, she knows, she knows, and yet tears begin to roll down her face. Perhaps it should be comforting that they will die in every timeline — that there is nothing Ea or anyone else could have done to save these children or her own, lost to the Reckoning — but she isn’t comforted. So, as night falls, she moves further down the beach, away from the rest of the group, and cries: they begin softly, but quickly become huge, choking, gasping sobs. Sobs not only for these children and hers but her parents, her love, her land.
And then, when she runs out of tears, she turns on her haunches and leaves it all behind.
At first, she thinks she will be allowed to sleep but instead, the sprites move her, alone, into the next morning. Clouds hang overhead and the beach is foggy at first, as the Baltians bring the remains of the children onto the beach, but the fog gives way as a pair of Stratosians land. As the Stratosians take in the scene of the Baltians standing over the dead children, tempers flare. The Stratosians seem to be more volatile, quick to anger and attack, but the Baltians lock hardened eyes, prepared to defend themselves. One of the Stratosians steps towards the Baltians —
“Wait! WAIT!” Ea screams, revealing herself from behind a large group of rocks a short distance away from the group. She’s spoken before she knows what else to say — how could she possibly convince them that it had been an accident, that what they see with their own eyes was just a misunderstanding?
And then, she thinks, they should see it with their own eyes.
“I know you don’t know me, but it was an accident,” she says, walking closer to them, “just watch.”
She draws from the clouds, from the darkness and the light, until they combine to form wisps of yesterday’s scene, like a hazy dream. She shows them the filly and the colt playing, laughter, and the Giant Roc above, hunting. She shows them the rocks falling from the cliff where the Roc is perched, striking the colt dead before he even reaches the water. She shows them the filly, jumping in to save the colt but struggling before she, too, is struck by rocks, dragging her down. And, finally, she shows them the water stained red.
“Please,” she pants, exhausted from her display, “please believe me.”
you get dragged down, down to the same spot enough times in a row
the bottom begins to feel like the only safe place that you know
Back, when violence bloodied the bodies of Baltians and Stratosians. Back, when war was new and the fight was fresh in their minds. Back, when the middle earthland was destroyed – and back further when it was unmarked and unmarred. Back, when a few of each of them met secretly, before it was a total impossibility. Back, when two foals found a playmate in each other. Back, when the sound of fighting was replaced by the giggles of two children kicking up their heels on a shoreline.
It should be dizzying, this hurried foray into the past, but Glaw is so absorbed in solving the mystery that she hardly notices her stomach’s flutter. She watches everything play out with a keen gaze, seeing the crescendo of war in reverse and understanding the ‘how’ if not the ‘why.’
All of the skirmishes become like fire ants building a colony; small in number at first, but capable of so much pain as their numbers swell. Her skin itches with it all. She so desperately wants to shout out at every point they reach. She wants to inform them of the terrible path they are on, regardless of the starting point that she and the other Beqannans will soon see. She wants to throw herself between the fins of the Baltians and the wings of the Stratosians. She wants them to see what they have become: creatures of violence and hatred, creatures of misplaced history and a sad, improbable future.
But she is whisked further back until her own feet sink into the sand near the crashing shoreline.
Two little lives intersect here, and it feels like their time-travel is at an end.
Glaw watches with the ghost of an uncertain smile on her lips. The boy and girl become braver and surer of their sudden friendship in the way that only children can. It softens the lines of tension that run through her limbs and tighten her jaw. She doesn’t suspect what will happen. She thinks it not be so horrible, not so bloody, in that naïve way of her’s. Maybe the parents will come and demand them not to play, maybe that sparks the nightmare war? Surely, it won’t be the double death of the innocents so content in the company of a stranger?
But then she sees it. The Roc nestled above the colt and the filly makes its presence known when it shifts forward. Rocks fall and Glaw screams uselessly just before the crunch as they meet the boy’s skull. The girl follows him down into the water, and as more rocks follow her, she does not resurface.
Glaw feels her own heart go with them as it sinks deeper into the cavity of her chest. She feels cold, suddenly – helpless in a way she has never been before. To be a spectator to such unbridled joy and to have it ripped away by the grisly hands of history is almost more than she can bear.
The parents come and she can understand it all now. She can see the direct line of devastation turning to misunderstanding turning to outright hatred forming in the corners of Stratosian and Baltian eyes. It is obvious why the battlefields are littered with them all throughout the centuries. One bouncing boy and one brave girl and the love of their families all shattered together.
The sprite that has carried her through time does it again. This time, Glaw swears she can feel the gravity of it stronger than ever. This time, her bones feel grounded and her blood feels warm as they both propel her forward, an active participant in time once again.
“Please,” she starts gently, her voice like the morning’s first songbird. She bows her head at the same time and when she lifts it, there is pain in her eyes. It is not the pain of a parent but that of the observer, of the informed. Not greater and not lesser, but different. “It was an accident. They were just playing and the Roc knocked stones from the cliff and they just fell. They were friends.” She had meant to explain it slowly and clearly, but emotion rushes her words and pricks tears in her eyes. She can’t get the images out of her mind. She doesn’t think she ever will. “If I could have stopped it, I would have. It was a terrible accident.”
They stand before her, both parties so different from herself and most of Beqanna. It is clear that one belongs to the sky and one belongs to the sea, in the same way that she herself belongs to the sunrise lands. But that doesn’t mean they have to isolate themselves. That doesn’t mean that they can’t all live cohesively, learning from each other and appreciating their differences as strengths. They have lost something dear to them and Glaw realizes with a start that she could, too.
If this rift isn’t sealed here, it will tear Beqanna apart.
“Please,” she repeats, her voice stronger now but not losing its undercurrent of compassion. “Have their deaths become a unifying occurrence, not something that will forever cleave your two people. Celebrate their lives and their ability to see past what set them apart in their pursuit of pure happiness. Have this be the day that the kingdoms of Baltia and Stratos grieve together. Have tomorrow be the day that they both move forward together.” She pauses, hopes beyond hope that it is enough to save her own home. “Do it together. Imagine how much bigger and better your world and lives will be for it.”
![[Image: EOU990v.png]](https://i.imgur.com/EOU990v.png)
Famkee [Fahm-key]
Ea
