02-09-2020, 08:06 PM
Mama used to tell Thorn that he will always have so much more love to give than everyone else—because she could sense the magic in his heart but also because Thorn is special. Because even when feeling bitter, when feeling left behind, when feeling too tall and gangly to make friends, he loved and loved and loved. He smelled the flowers as he passed, he stared in wonder at the trees and birds and bugs. He felt his chest nearly burst with the weight of his heart and still asked to be given more.
Because Mama loved Papa and Thorn so obviously loved Papa even when Papa could not show his love back. And Mama loved that.
Thorn used to fall asleep to Mama’s singing while she wove flowers into his nighttime skeleton, and that is what he hears when the ground beneath him falls. A flash of fear, first, but then that strong heart of his reminds him that if this is it (death), then so be it—Mama’s singing will call to him even in the Afterlife. The monster’s magic finds it hard to wrap wiry and sharp fingers around Thorn’s lungs—again and again he leans into that steady beat in his chest.
The black comes, all encompassing, suffocating, quieting even Thorn’s healthy heartbeat.
But when he blinks, he is standing upright and not even dizziness blurs his vision. Tamlin stands before him, clear and unblinking eyes empty and then suddenly imploring. His brother’s gaze feels off, like there is nothing behind them; but then he is begging him to follow, and then he is disappearing into the shadows the fungi cannot light up, and Thorn cannot bear to not follow him into the dark.
The walls pulse but not so much that it disorientates Thorn (being as resistant to evil magic as he is), and that seems to infuriate the caves. The sabino sees his brother, sees him turn around with eyes desperate to know why Thorn is not catching up. The click of their hooves speeds up when Thorn breaks into a confused gallop, but Tamlin merely matches his pace and remains the same distance away.
It isn’t long before Tamlin is far enough away that Thorn can hardly see him. On his next blink, the cave changes into ice so clear he can see his reflection clearly. He comes to a sliding halt as even the stone beneath his hooves grows slippery. A wall of mirror-like ice slams down before Thorn, leaving him to slam his forehead into the hard surface. When he opens his eyes, he sees his own two purple ones staring back, illuminated by the fungi left upon the ceiling. Thorn takes a heavy breath, the air around him fogging and the ice crackling angrily.
The cold has always frightened Thorn. Not freezing to death, but the way it is the exact opposite of his warm Tephran home. The way it opposes the warmth in his heart.
Slowly, Thorn turns to study the cave around him, finding with a sinking heart that a wall of ice has enclosed the other side of the cave, as well. His breath quickens, his heart squeezes, and Thorn ends up spinning until he is dizzy. When he settles, too disorientated to keep moving, the mirror ice whirls—Thorn can’t breath, his heart rate picks up, the ice—the ice, it moves and then stops—
Thorn stares at Thorn, fear plastered across his face. Tamlin stands just behind him with a wicked, bloodied grin splitting his face. A gasp, small but enough to turn the still air, leaves Thorn’s lips when he whirls to confirm Tamlin is behind him, but he’s not; instead, Thorn’s closest sibling is once again in the reflection, but this time he is closer—and this time, rows of fangs replace his flat teeth. A roar, one that echoes and tears up the sabino’s eardrums, leaves Tamlin’s mouth just before he rips into the reflection of Thorn’s hindquarters. “No!” the real Thorn screams, even as his knees hit the ground from the pain in his ears. He can’t tear his eyes from the reflection, can’t stop staring as his most beloved brother rips him limb from limb.
Tamlin tortures him, both in body and in spirit, and when there is nothing left of Thorn but a body and head, he lifts his gaze to stare haughtily into real-Thorn’s face.
“Why?” Thorn whispers.
“Because I wanted to,” Tamlin replies, then rips reflection-Thorn’s throat open.
It is that fear of the unknown that the monster draws on, because Thorn has always needed to know why. His kind upbringing left a lack of understanding of suffering or of the senseless evil that scars their world. The most terrifying thing Thorn can envision is harm befalling those simply because the evil wishes it so; and for such evil to poison his family . . .
Thorn blacks out.
When he awakes, Tamlin is peering over him. Thorn jerks back in fear before realizing that this is his normal brother. No fangs tear up the flesh of his mouth, no blood frenzies his eyes. A sigh of relief escapes his clenched jaw when he sees the concern in Tamlin’s eyes (though a sliver of doubt, just a little, makes him question why his brother’s concern looks so baseless).
“Where are we?” Thorn whispers through a parched throat. Tamlin looks up at a wall of tightly woven vines lit up by the blue glow of fungi.
“I don’t know,” Tamlin’s voice echoes strangely. “I was running ahead and you appeared before me.”
“Oh,” the sabino replies. He climbs to his hooves and stares in exhaustion at the foliage. “Maybe we should find out.”
Because Mama loved Papa and Thorn so obviously loved Papa even when Papa could not show his love back. And Mama loved that.
Thorn used to fall asleep to Mama’s singing while she wove flowers into his nighttime skeleton, and that is what he hears when the ground beneath him falls. A flash of fear, first, but then that strong heart of his reminds him that if this is it (death), then so be it—Mama’s singing will call to him even in the Afterlife. The monster’s magic finds it hard to wrap wiry and sharp fingers around Thorn’s lungs—again and again he leans into that steady beat in his chest.
The black comes, all encompassing, suffocating, quieting even Thorn’s healthy heartbeat.
But when he blinks, he is standing upright and not even dizziness blurs his vision. Tamlin stands before him, clear and unblinking eyes empty and then suddenly imploring. His brother’s gaze feels off, like there is nothing behind them; but then he is begging him to follow, and then he is disappearing into the shadows the fungi cannot light up, and Thorn cannot bear to not follow him into the dark.
The walls pulse but not so much that it disorientates Thorn (being as resistant to evil magic as he is), and that seems to infuriate the caves. The sabino sees his brother, sees him turn around with eyes desperate to know why Thorn is not catching up. The click of their hooves speeds up when Thorn breaks into a confused gallop, but Tamlin merely matches his pace and remains the same distance away.
It isn’t long before Tamlin is far enough away that Thorn can hardly see him. On his next blink, the cave changes into ice so clear he can see his reflection clearly. He comes to a sliding halt as even the stone beneath his hooves grows slippery. A wall of mirror-like ice slams down before Thorn, leaving him to slam his forehead into the hard surface. When he opens his eyes, he sees his own two purple ones staring back, illuminated by the fungi left upon the ceiling. Thorn takes a heavy breath, the air around him fogging and the ice crackling angrily.
The cold has always frightened Thorn. Not freezing to death, but the way it is the exact opposite of his warm Tephran home. The way it opposes the warmth in his heart.
Slowly, Thorn turns to study the cave around him, finding with a sinking heart that a wall of ice has enclosed the other side of the cave, as well. His breath quickens, his heart squeezes, and Thorn ends up spinning until he is dizzy. When he settles, too disorientated to keep moving, the mirror ice whirls—Thorn can’t breath, his heart rate picks up, the ice—the ice, it moves and then stops—
Thorn stares at Thorn, fear plastered across his face. Tamlin stands just behind him with a wicked, bloodied grin splitting his face. A gasp, small but enough to turn the still air, leaves Thorn’s lips when he whirls to confirm Tamlin is behind him, but he’s not; instead, Thorn’s closest sibling is once again in the reflection, but this time he is closer—and this time, rows of fangs replace his flat teeth. A roar, one that echoes and tears up the sabino’s eardrums, leaves Tamlin’s mouth just before he rips into the reflection of Thorn’s hindquarters. “No!” the real Thorn screams, even as his knees hit the ground from the pain in his ears. He can’t tear his eyes from the reflection, can’t stop staring as his most beloved brother rips him limb from limb.
Tamlin tortures him, both in body and in spirit, and when there is nothing left of Thorn but a body and head, he lifts his gaze to stare haughtily into real-Thorn’s face.
“Why?” Thorn whispers.
“Because I wanted to,” Tamlin replies, then rips reflection-Thorn’s throat open.
It is that fear of the unknown that the monster draws on, because Thorn has always needed to know why. His kind upbringing left a lack of understanding of suffering or of the senseless evil that scars their world. The most terrifying thing Thorn can envision is harm befalling those simply because the evil wishes it so; and for such evil to poison his family . . .
Thorn blacks out.
When he awakes, Tamlin is peering over him. Thorn jerks back in fear before realizing that this is his normal brother. No fangs tear up the flesh of his mouth, no blood frenzies his eyes. A sigh of relief escapes his clenched jaw when he sees the concern in Tamlin’s eyes (though a sliver of doubt, just a little, makes him question why his brother’s concern looks so baseless).
“Where are we?” Thorn whispers through a parched throat. Tamlin looks up at a wall of tightly woven vines lit up by the blue glow of fungi.
“I don’t know,” Tamlin’s voice echoes strangely. “I was running ahead and you appeared before me.”
“Oh,” the sabino replies. He climbs to his hooves and stares in exhaustion at the foliage. “Maybe we should find out.”