05-04-2021, 11:27 PM
stifled the choice and the air in my lungs;
better not to breathe than to breathe a lie
He is used to waiting, too. He had been terrible at it before falling into the Underworld. But that place of harsh light and dark, blood-stained clay had taught him what it meant to wait. His patience had grown and deepened, but then it became one of the only things he held onto. He had waited for the eclipse to end, for their torturer to return, for the expectant release of death, for the painful reformation, for the beginning of death all over again. Most importantly, most consistently, he waited for Islas.
There was another victim in his chamber, someone for their thousand-eyed guardian to pick at while the other soul felt the agony of death before living again. A winged mare with cheekbones that became more pronounced each time their torturer ripped her heart from her chest. More often than not, her face became softer and her eyes grew darker, and Tiercel would see Islas’s pale face. He would hear her voice in his ears, a metronome against the melody of screaming.
I can’t leave you. I can’t leave you. I can’t leave you.
It would be an understatement to say that Tiercel was disappointed when a grayed stallion met him at the lake’s shore. He hadn’t expected Islas to wait for him, and he certainly hadn’t expected her to go looking for him. She had been heavy with their child when he’d fallen into the lake, and his heart twists with this thought. His pale eyes trace the red clay as he follows the familiar path to their cave, and he picks out pieces of a face among the stones. Did he have a son or a daughter? He wonders if he will find traces of his family in the face of his child or if it will be as lovely as Islas.
Islas. His chest tightens even harder, drawing a sharp sigh from his dark mouth. “Tiercel.” He stops breathing altogether. Her voice comes from behind him, and it takes only seconds for the stallion to swivel his body around. Exhaustion makes his muscles cry out, but he ignores them because there she is. Tiercel almost can’t move; he feels like he is starstruck, like he is caught in a trap, like this is another nightmare in the darkness between dead and alive. But when she draws close and touches him, when she feels soft and warm, when she smells like Loess and wind — he shudders at the familiarity and leans into her.
She has always been a balm, and she remains so. Tiercel can feel the harsh trauma of the Underworld beginning to fade, becoming a distant memory. Yet as she pulls away, it comes rushing back. His pale eyes search her dark ones, twin blue skies seeming to sink into the exhausted, jagged angles of his face. “Don’t apologize,” he says, and his voice is raspy from months of screaming. “I’m glad you didn’t find me. I didn’t want you to end up there, too.” His throat feels tight with emotion, yet deeper than that, he feels suffocated by fear. Tiercel’s eyes begin to well with tears, and he feels as if he is at the edge of a bottomless hole. There is too much to explain to Islas, and he worries that he will scare her with the memories that lie in his mind.
“I’m glad you’re okay… What about our child? Did” — his gaze flashes to their surroundings, to her naked side, to the vastness of Loess — “are they…?”
There was another victim in his chamber, someone for their thousand-eyed guardian to pick at while the other soul felt the agony of death before living again. A winged mare with cheekbones that became more pronounced each time their torturer ripped her heart from her chest. More often than not, her face became softer and her eyes grew darker, and Tiercel would see Islas’s pale face. He would hear her voice in his ears, a metronome against the melody of screaming.
I can’t leave you. I can’t leave you. I can’t leave you.
It would be an understatement to say that Tiercel was disappointed when a grayed stallion met him at the lake’s shore. He hadn’t expected Islas to wait for him, and he certainly hadn’t expected her to go looking for him. She had been heavy with their child when he’d fallen into the lake, and his heart twists with this thought. His pale eyes trace the red clay as he follows the familiar path to their cave, and he picks out pieces of a face among the stones. Did he have a son or a daughter? He wonders if he will find traces of his family in the face of his child or if it will be as lovely as Islas.
Islas. His chest tightens even harder, drawing a sharp sigh from his dark mouth. “Tiercel.” He stops breathing altogether. Her voice comes from behind him, and it takes only seconds for the stallion to swivel his body around. Exhaustion makes his muscles cry out, but he ignores them because there she is. Tiercel almost can’t move; he feels like he is starstruck, like he is caught in a trap, like this is another nightmare in the darkness between dead and alive. But when she draws close and touches him, when she feels soft and warm, when she smells like Loess and wind — he shudders at the familiarity and leans into her.
She has always been a balm, and she remains so. Tiercel can feel the harsh trauma of the Underworld beginning to fade, becoming a distant memory. Yet as she pulls away, it comes rushing back. His pale eyes search her dark ones, twin blue skies seeming to sink into the exhausted, jagged angles of his face. “Don’t apologize,” he says, and his voice is raspy from months of screaming. “I’m glad you didn’t find me. I didn’t want you to end up there, too.” His throat feels tight with emotion, yet deeper than that, he feels suffocated by fear. Tiercel’s eyes begin to well with tears, and he feels as if he is at the edge of a bottomless hole. There is too much to explain to Islas, and he worries that he will scare her with the memories that lie in his mind.
“I’m glad you’re okay… What about our child? Did” — his gaze flashes to their surroundings, to her naked side, to the vastness of Loess — “are they…?”
tiercel.
@[Islas]