"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
This she knows for sure: she is loved. She knows it in her mother’s softness and the persistent worry in her father’s eyes. She knows it in the warmth of her mother’s embrace and how, though he never touches her, her father smiles like something secret.
And it is such a brilliant thing, to be loved. To find courage in the knowledge that, should she fall, her parents would be there to lift her back up. It makes her brave, curious. It makes her soft, too, to be loved. There’s a heart that beats strong in her chest, stronger than most, it is her father’s heart, and it is not immune to aching. This she has inherited from her father, this penchant for worry. But she smiles like her mother.
Leliel, she is such a stunning combination of the both of them, Israfel and Selaphiel. It is her mother’s innocence that saves her whimsy, it is her father’s seriousness that keeps her grounded. Her head is in the clouds, you see, but her feet are heavy on the ground. She laughs but there is some weight to it, because she is equal parts her mother and her father.
She has been wandering farther and farther from the safe glen of love in which she has spent her youth. Her legs are longer now, stronger, as is her desire to know the world beyond the light of her parents. Her father does not want her to go, but he understands that he cannot keep her. Selaphiel, he would not dream of dampening his daughter’s spirit, though sometimes he thinks he can smell death on her already.
It is warm in the meadow, the height of afternoon, and she delights in the way wildflowers slide past her knees, her belly. How delightful it is to be alive on an afternoon like this, she thinks. How splendid it is simply to be alive.
She thinks to nap here amongst the wildflowers, let the steady hum of wind lull her to sleep. But she is thirsty for knowledge, a glutton for learning. She wants to explore every corner of the world, keen to lay her eyes on every creature that calls this place home. And she finds some strange, some wondrous, some that do not appear to be creatures at all.
She has wandered farther than she ever has before and, as evening begins to creep in and shadows begin to lean down across the meadow, she realizes that she has lost her way back. She does not panic, though, only scans the horizon for a figure. And when she finds one, she approaches slowly, cautious only in the way she does not want to startle them. And she smiles without shyness when she asks, “excuse me, do you know the way back to the ruins?”
03-18-2026, 09:27 PM (This post was last modified: 03-18-2026, 09:33 PM by Limb.)
The lonesomeness grows until a playmate appears, made of whispers and fog and tears, a colt like himself in all ways but one: incorporeal, he, and for that matter, only real in Limb's belief. The two friends gallivant in the day through lands of vast kinds, from mountains to lakes to forests of tall, tall pines. In the thrill of their chase Limb loses the lonesomeness. He has plants and starlight and his imaginary friend to keep him company here, in his rebirth. thirsts.
But when day turns to night, and his shadow melts into the darkness, he feels the acute pang of his farce bore plain 'neath his horn's dim light.
If only he could remember the before-before. If only he could lay claim to more. As it stands, Limb can lay claim to nothing; losing his grip on his past life's knowledge demands that he restart, untrusting. And in the gloom of twilight cusping unto dark, Limb wonders, morosely, if it has all been for naught.
"Excuse me, do you know the way back to the ruins?"
Her voice startles the colt, gangly and tall. He spooks skyward, legs and all; and when he regains his composure, it is with nostrils flared, curiosity writ across his features beneath his horn's glare. He thinks of his travels, fast, fast, wanting to please the gold filly with her waxing smile, and at long last:
"The ruins!" (No, no, Limb, don't sound excited--) "Er, no, I can't say that I have been-- He ducks his head, hides his yellow eyes as the meadow's wildflowers crawl up his thighs. He frowns at the blossoms, confused at their climb; this must be a leftover habit from a life left behind. But he shakes the thought loose and looks up again, to the girl with the glow coming off her soft bends. "But I would love to escort you--or join you, that is. In finding them, I mean. The ruins." He winces, wishing to have practiced talking rather than playing with his imaginary friend. "I don't have a home, so it would be no trouble at all for me to see you safely home before night's end."
"Not that you need seeing to, that is...
Gosh, I sound awful. It's been a long time since I talked with... anyone? Please, let me try again. Would it be okay if I joined you on your search? I might not be much help, but, uhm. My name is Limb..."
