"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
while collecting the stars, I connected the dots. I don’t know who I am, but now I know who I’m not.
Flying is surprisingly difficult, and falling, at least gracefully, is not really that much easier. She plummets into the thick of the forest, half falling and half gliding, a silhouette of near copper and indigo as she disappeared beneath the uppermost branches and their canopy of rich green leaves. The trees reached for her, long spindled fingers of wood stretched out to catch her as she fell. They left welts along her skin, faint ridges of angry puckered flesh, and bruises buried deep and invisible beneath the orange. But they could not catch her so much as slow the progression of her graceless descent. She landed on her feet with a thud, keeping her balance only by spreading those soft, downy wings wide above her withers. The feathers were the richest, reddest shade of copper, much deeper than the pale rust of her body, and so soft they felt like the whisper of warm air against her back.
But when she flung them wide above her, she felt them snag in the brambles she had fallen among. Reflexively, hastened by the bite of thorn and brier, she tried to pull them back to her, to pull them flush against her withers and sides. But the feathers were trapped, held open awkwardly by the ugly green of the plants woven tight around her. A sound fell from her lips, a bubble of frustration that had been trapped inside her chest for too long, and it filled the forest around her like a chime.
She hadn’t expected wings to be so difficult. In her memory, in those first moments of life, born on the side of that mountain, her wings had felt like a part of her. No different from her eyes or her ears or legs crumpled beneath her. The magic in them had been intimate, had been hers. But maybe they had been gone from her for too long, because they felt different now, not changed, but somehow unfamiliar. Or maybe she was unfamiliar, maybe she was changed. She heaves again and this time she can feel feathers pulled free and skin pulled apart, raw and pink and aching beneath the feathers that still remained. A faint glow was the only indication of magic as her body began to heal the wounds. Closing her eyes and furrowing that dark, copper brow, she coaxed the magic in her wings, willing them to shift as she knew they could. Small, no feathers. But she had about as much experience with shifting as she did flying, and the result of her efforts was odd and ugly – a half shift between those dark russet feathers and the iridescence of glimmering dragonfly wings.
With another sigh, a sigh colored with just a touch of distress now, she gave up her efforts of shifting enough to pull her wings free, and relented to a forced stillness that made her skin crawl. It wasn’t that she minded the forest – she was no stranger to the brush and tree, she and Leliana had probably explored more of Beqanna than most had as children. It was that she was trapped and alone, something unusual for the twins, and she could see by the red and gold of the sky through the trees that what light still remained would be gone soon. Pulling gently against her wings again, testing the pain and pressure of the brambles braided through the feather and thin iridescence, she weighed the pros and cons of throwing herself forward, of ripping them free. She could, in theory, heal herself, but the image of such mangled wings that formed in her mind forced a stillness over her that she was not eager to shatter.
There is a sound then, a bird or a fox, or maybe someone passing by, and she can feel her breath stutter and catch in her chest. Those green eyes flash and widen, half-hidden beneath the tangles of an unruly forelock as she waits indecisively, wondering if it would be better to remain unnoticed or if perhaps this might be someone who could help. But she finds that the decision is made for her when a dark shape solidifies in the trees ahead, a pair of quiet eyes on a dark face that, for whatever reason, she trusts instantly. “Hi,” she says, breathless and sheepish, warm beneath the weight of his gaze, “it turns out that I’m really awful at flying, and also not so great at falling.” A pause and she brightens a little, the smile on her mouth slight and uncertain, barely there, like a question she needs him to answer. And then, as if it isn’t completely obvious, “I can’t free my wings.”
He stands like black death in the forest. The only sound that he has heard for the past few hours had been the stead drum of his heart echoing in his ears. Birds and small creatures rustle about but it is all white noise as Lior drinks in the solitude that beckons him, caresses his restless soul with it's sweet song. Lids are half mast and lulled as the great dark male stands as though a pillar of onyx amongst the green of the foliage.
It seems as though hours have passed when he hears the rather disruptive crash of weight drive him from the meditative state. Silver eyes flash open as his brow furrows in response as he quickly finds the source of his distraction. A falling creature of the brightest copper and blue clashes with the scenery loudly as she flits, falls, and soon tangles herself amongst the brambles. Lior observes her struggle for a few moments before he lets out a heavy sigh, his features remaining stoic and flat before he coaxes the feathered limbs to bring him to the thrashing equine.
"Hello." It's all he says before he gets to work.
The stallion does not spend any time passing judgment if the girl is deserving of his help but then again, he doesn't really care to waste time playing judge, jury, and executioner. The stallion eases close to the tangled woman, eyeing her for a moment but when he determines she not looking to take a chunk out of his hide, he makes light work of grabbing the thorns in his mouth to pluck them away. Hooves mash down what he can, the spines digging into the tender flesh of his legs and belly but only small grunts give away his discomfort as blood shines against the dark coat. The matted mane and lowered head catch on the barbs as he grips the briars, (mindful of his tongue!) and tugs then back to try and clear a way for the brassy female.
Lior can taste blood despite his best efforts.
After checking on her, warning of when he was moving the thorns so she may expect a prick here and there, Lior stamps down the green stems with their ugly points. Tender red cuts cover his body from the shoulder down as though he has waded a sea of glass shards, the angry red blood seeping into his skin and dripping down to the thirsty earth. The sting of exposed flesh burns across his brow as sweat tickled to collect in the open gashes of the brambles. He simply grits his jaw with annoyance of the pain. Lior steps back as he finished to give the young woman a path to exit the briar patch, noting that she too could be cut up like he but at least she was free from her thorny prison. "There." His remark is flat as he waits to watch the youth make her exit, making sure she is at least able to tend to her wounds.
while collecting the stars, I connected the dots. I don’t know who I am, but now I know who I’m not.
His silence is deafening, the quiet way he watches her with eyes that gleam cool and bright like distant silver stars. She shifts uncomfortably, reprimanded almost instantly by the bite of thorn and bramble as it digs deeper beneath the soft russet feathers to taste the copper of blood where it beads like angry red pearls. But then he speaks, just one single, simple word, and she finds it is enough to dissipate the uncertainty brewing in the pit of her stomach.
“Hello.” She returns, her eyes light and green and cool as emeralds buried in stone. Her brows furrows, though it must be nearly invisible beneath the tangles of red forelock, and her chin lifts, forcing her head to cock slightly to one side in an expression that belied the last few traces of hesitation buried like burrs in her chest.“Wait-“ she says suddenly, thrusting her nose forward to stop him once she realized his intention. But he pushed through the brambles all the same, ignoring or oblivious to the way her face darkened with worry the instant blood began to form in lonely beads across the black of his skin.
Maybe it was because she had nearly died, because she would not have lived at all but for her sister, but for the trait they shared. But it hurt to see anyone to suffer, like a pain in her chest, physical and brutal and so painfully real. She felt it now, that empty ache, that awful pressure in her chest, and it was only made worse by the fact that this stranger now suffered on her behalf.
The sound that bloomed from her lips was soft and wretched, a whimper of regret as she pulled against the thorns to reach out and touch her nose to his shoulder. She is wordless against the black, quiet and unmoving but for the odd warmth that blossoms from her light touch. It isn’t much, it isn’t nearly enough, but even as he peels apart the briars and opens his skin for her, she focuses on healing him. Her eyes fall closed, peaceful, though there is much tension in the lines of that coppery face, and she imagines his flesh knit back together, imagines the pale pink of uninjured flesh.
It is only when he steps back that the connection is broken and her eyes fly open to trace first his empty face and then the smears of red against his skin. He speaks again, a single word in a flat voice that makes her wonder, and it is only then that she realizes why he had stopped and pulled away. Her wings were free, a hollow beaten down so that she can join him in the open space. She does, stiffly, and her wings shift into something more suitable. Iridescent and gleaming beneath, with a hard russet shell like a beetle overtop to protect them from more briars. It wasn’t beautiful in any way, in fact they looked quite strange on the back of a horse, but she was wary of the feathers until she could leave the forest again.
“Thank you.” She said finally, reaching her nose out to touch his shoulder again, thrusting another wave of healing magic into wounds that still peppered his skin. The effort made her sway a little, unsteady with a new weariness that felt heavy like snow draped across her skin. And then, in a voice so soft and tired, with eyes so gentle and uncertain when they lifted to fall into the silver of his, “Are you okay?” She could probably heal the remaining wounds across his skin (she had all but forgotten the ones that were still carved into her skin like ruby constellations) but she would need some time to rest.
The girl, pinned like a displayed butterfly on an entomologist's shelf, she is perched. Lior can not simply pass by the bronzed equine with the glitter green eyes. She is flawless yet broken amidst her thorny cage.
Calm gray eyes missed how her features contort in response to the way the sharp points tear hungrily into the soft points of his flesh. It is her touch that causes him to shiver, the skin stiffening against her touch but he still makes light work of the brambles despite visibly ignoring her gentle, pleading connection. A warmth moves over him, strange but not unpleasant, and he steals a glance to the young horse but her emerald pools are unseen as she closes them
Lior figures it is perhaps the pain that drives her to shut out his dark presence...he does not blame her.
For a moment, Lior averts his eyes as though he could be witnessing a private moment when she opens her own to find herself freed. Through the darkest of brows, the gray sky eyes are now watching the way she moves so delicately through the barbed path he has cleared for her. The change of her wings causes the edges of his lips to lift momentarily in response the fascinating way she is able to shift herself. (Lior is nothing but the man that stands before her now). But when she reaches for him again, he stiffens but allows her to feel his skin. And again the warmth tickles over his skin, watching and feeling the way the torn seams of his skin end. Surprise collapses the stone walls of his face as he looks to the girl openly wondering and watching the way she mends him. Careful do notice the way she stumbles, sways and he leans to offer his strength and steady her. "I am fine." The words are more of a vibration than vocalization as he speaks so low, to only her, lips close enough to her ear that his whiskered lips brush them.
while collecting the stars, I connected the dots. I don’t know who I am, but now I know who I’m not.
She is too tired to notice those stone-gray eyes on her while she heals the wounds along his skin, too preoccupied to notice the moment his expression changes, softening enough to let her have a glimpse inside. But she does see it when she is finished and pulls away on unsteady legs, when he leans in with a dark shoulder so that she does not lose her stride.
“Thank you.” Is all she says at first, a quiet voice to a tired face, but then her eyes lift to his and she is both pleased and surprised by the new depth she finds waiting there for her. She smiles gently and touches his neck, an almost uncertain gesture if only because he is still so quiet, so withdrawn, and in a way that she has never been. Then, gently, with eyes that are honest and green and as soft as the feathers on the wings of birds, “you seem surprised by my ability,” a pause as she considered him, “or maybe even the kindness itself.”
But she does not pry despite her question, opting instead to turn from his quiet face and back to the forest that loomed around them. She felt wary of the trees now, wary of the tattered edges of her wings, wary of the sharp edges of shell that now nipped at her spine. It made her miss the softness of the feathers. She turns back to him with a question on her lips but finds instead an answer hummed into the curve of her delicate ear.
“Lior,” she repeats, an echo lost to the trees and their leaves, “my name is Exist.” She is quiet for a long moment, safe in the shadow cast by his dark body, having all but forgotten the question that had been on her tongue only moments ago. But then a twinge along her back reminds her, a sharp and almost inaudible exhalation of pain from dark lips as she turns that delicate face back up to his to catch that stony gaze. “Lior, do you know a way out of the forest?” A pause so she can hide the cringe that darkens her face. Then, just a whisper, “My wings hurt.”
She is far too delicate to be left in the scarred and callused hands of the dark stallion but he would not leave her now that she was freed. Instead he opted to stay by her side and see her through the tangle of this trees and shrubbery. The forest can be a disturbing place when one is to their own survival abilities.
The girl's remarks about his genuinue surprise could not be truer but he steels his jaw and throat and lets the expression melt from his features. Lior clears his through softly before he begins to formulate a response. "I never knew there could be healers." The comment is offered low and stoic. Lior would only ever admit to himself of the fright he felt having his body manipulated. Exist had helped him but it came at the price of his vulnerability.
Silver flecked pools immediately dart to her copper features at the smallest utter of his name. For so long he had been nothing...no one. His name was lost to all except for his father, who regularly enjoyed using it as a weapon, chastising and torturing him...
But those dark days are behind him and no longer was the tall dark man crippled by his maker. No longer a slave to insidious practices and unholy acts. A heavy breath expels from between whiskered lips as he listens earnestly for the drip of her soft voice, banishing the fear of a darkening forest from his breast. "Exist." Her name, one she has offered so genuinely, is gently caressed by his tongue, tasted and savored like a rare sweet.
He glances around them, standing tall and sensitive to what may lay just beyond the light's reach before deciding on the direction of which he came and gently nudging his companion (mindful of her wings and hesitantly brushing against her neck) before leading them on. "Where is your home, Exist? I will walk you there." His voice expresses the question and statement in a low 'matter-of-fact' tone as he would not be persuaded otherwise.
