"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 was a shift in the clouds today. Gone was the suffocating heaviness of muted grays. Replacing them a churning dark wave than rolled overhead. There was a malice in the rumble it emitted as I stood upon my rocky perch. My silver eyes cast across the vastness of my empire, relishing in all its glory.
---
Spring had made its arrival and so I decide to descend my throne and make my rounds. If I was to retain my status, I had to familiarize myself with all of Beqanna. Plus, it had been some time since I reveled in the pleasures of my powers.
With cloven hooves I move easily across the slighter mountain-scape leading towards the source of their worlds magic. My thickened coat from the winter keeps me warm still in the higher altitudes of the craggy cliffs. The snow-covered tops were melting only slightly. A soft pattering of drips echoed off the stone walls mimicking a light spring rainstorm.
I move in silence as always. My senses vigilant as I make my way towards the flat plains of the Meadow. The grass had just begun to emerge from its winter dormancy and with it the return of life.
Not being one to enjoy the trivial things of life, I hardly perk my ears to the twitter of birds and bustling of critters. Only one thing ever piqued my interest, anomalies and fears. And as I stepped out into the open grasslands my sight and powers extend from my consciousness, seeking to find anyone of interest...
I need you to be a monster which is to say, I am trying not to love you
Rapt does not let himself think too deeply of his desires.
It is not a brand of introspection that reflects particularly well on him. The knowledge that, beneath the gold veneer of the not-unhandsome stallion lays a rotting want, the desire of him monstrous and awful.
He can almost forget it, sometimes – he flits and moves about and they think he is normal and he is normal he is normal and he does not need to peel away the gilded mask. He smiles. He is normal.
He sees her and his mouth goes dry.
(He is normal.)
She looks so like him. The monster Rapt had knelt before, the monster he had worshipped so – father to his child, a being that haunts his dreams. Bruise had been a waking nightmare and Rapt had loved every moment of it – had loved him. Bruise had not returned the affections, of course, but Rapt felt the affection in the burn of his skin as he allowed himself to be ripped, his body healing itself so this might happen again, and again, and again.
She looks so like him, and though he looks closer and parses the differences, he still feels flighty, nervous, unsure how to compart himself.
But he goes to her. He must, you see.
He stops and he does not kneel even though a part of him so wants to. She isn’t Bruise.
“You…” he says, and something in hearing his voice, a word spoken aloud, shakes him from his stupor. He shakes his head as if he’s been struck, and then he smiles. A normal smile.
“Apologies,” he says, “you look like someone I once knew.”
which is to say, I am still dreaming of kissing your claws
The meadow was an unlikely place to find a creature like me. No, one would have to scale the mountain sides to find another or dig thru the sands of Pangea at this point. And so, as I stand there, without a hint of emotion to be found, it surprises me just the slightest when I hear words directed at me.
You...
At first, I ignore him, the golden sheen man that hovers within my peripheral view. He was unremarkable and seemingly a waste of my precious time. Holding no hint of peculiarity to add to my collection, nor did he look like he has any fun fears to dangle before him. It is only when he speaks of knowing someone that looks like me do I acknowledge his existence.
With no more than a lazy turn of my horned skull, my ghostly eyes look upon the stranger. "Funny," I say in a stoic tone, "you don't look like our...type."
It was a passing judgment on my part, unsure why a Krampus would engage with such a normal creature. There must be something deeper, hidden beneath his gilded exterior that prompted a member of my lineages interest.
"Name?" I do not elaborate on if it is his I request, or the party in which I resemble.
I need you to be a monster which is to say, I am trying not to love you
He sees, of course, that she is not quite the same, but the similarity is still jarring. He fights the urge to sink to his knees, his muscles crying out for the familiar movement, to the pattern that once swallowed him whole. Instead, he remains standing, a placid façade draped on his features. She is a stranger, he reminds himself, and then, she is not him.
Oh, would that she were!
She speaks, then, an easy command in her tone. It’s cutting enough, the words - you don’t look like our type - but she is right. Rapt is handsome enough, but he is plain – colored gold with a faint glow, and the ability to heal his own wounds, but these are paltry compared to so many others.
“I served, once,” he says, perhaps oversharing, but he is eager to prove that Bruise once found him worthy of attention, even if the attention was cruel and bloody.
She speaks again, a vague demand, and Rapt feels that same urge to obey thrum in his veins.
“Rapt,” he says, giving her his name. He wouldn’t dare offer Bruise’s name like it was his own to give.
which is to say, I am still dreaming of kissing your claws
Amongst his plainness was something behind it I could not place. A longing in his gaze, a wishfulness that I do not understand. My eyes narrow, trying to pick off any little morsel of understanding behind the purpose of this interaction.
Something.
Words slip from his mouth, perhaps unintentionally, like a stammering love-struck idiot. Served. Now there is something. My brow might have peaked in interest, but I retained my stagnant demeanor.
A name comes forward now. I hardly acknowledge it, instead my mind is locked on his previous statement. One might ask who he served, but I am not that deep. My head tips in thought, the blood-stained trail from my eyes more apparent now. "Do you wish to serve again?" It was phrased as a question, but something inside me shifted towards this being the longing he sought.
