05-27-2021, 05:45 PM
stifled the choice and the air in my lungs;
better not to breathe than to breathe a lie
Tiercel has never really molded his life around routine. He’s tried establishing something in his life, a way to count the days and bring simplicity into the unruly ocean of his emotions. He’s hoped a routine would help control him and simmer the wilderness that fills him up until he must release it. Yet he never found pleasure in that lifestyle, and he’d always grown bored knowing what the next day would bring.
“More of the same” has never been a phrase Tiercel enjoys saying. The only time he’s appreciated routine is during his stay in the Underworld. Their guardian (though it was more of a torturer) established its pattern with Tiercel and his fellow captive in the early days, when they were still full of hope for escape. And eventually, the pair had fallen in step with the guardian’s actions.
It was ‘more of the same’ during those endless days with the stark, white light blistering his eyes. It was waking to the thousand-eyed creature looming over his rejuvenated body, mouths layered with sharp teeth. It was feeling his skin and bone give way so the creature could pull his heart from its home with a slow slurp. It was watching his heart beat upon a pedestal of black clay, while he is burned or sliced or broken or ripped. Tiercel had never felt relief in a routine until that final, bittersweet moment when the guardian placed its killing blow to that barely-beating heart and the dun could feel a few moments of nothingness.
He would wake every time with her face pressed against the back of his eyelids. Tiercel cannot help but crave Islas now when he knows she is somewhere in this world. The stallion does not know who she is, and Tiercel wants to tell him that she is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, that she’s born from the stars, that she might have his child trailing her heels. Exhaustion keeps his tongue tied and he can only exhale a raspy, “Oh.”
Tarian (the dun-and-navy struggles to catch his name, and he works even harder to lock it away as a memory) asks him who he is. The guardian had asked that same question in the early days of their captivity, with a voice of a hundred voices. “Who are you?” The wrong answer (“Tiercel”) had the consequence of the torture that hurt him the worst. The right answer (“Nothing”) left him tensing for a pain that never came. It didn’t take long for Tiercel or the winged mare to catch on — in this world of bright light and dark clay, they were nothing.
Tiercel flinches instinctively, feeling the word form on his tongue — I am Nothing. He tries to crawl the rest of the way out of the lake instead of answering. He hopes that the guardian cannot reach him on dry ground, though Tiercel’s cerulean eyes still roll toward the depths of the water when he says, “I’m T… Tier — uh, I’m Tiercel.” His muscles shudder, and he uses the last of his energy to skitter further away from the water’s edge. “She’s here, somewhere.”
“More of the same” has never been a phrase Tiercel enjoys saying. The only time he’s appreciated routine is during his stay in the Underworld. Their guardian (though it was more of a torturer) established its pattern with Tiercel and his fellow captive in the early days, when they were still full of hope for escape. And eventually, the pair had fallen in step with the guardian’s actions.
It was ‘more of the same’ during those endless days with the stark, white light blistering his eyes. It was waking to the thousand-eyed creature looming over his rejuvenated body, mouths layered with sharp teeth. It was feeling his skin and bone give way so the creature could pull his heart from its home with a slow slurp. It was watching his heart beat upon a pedestal of black clay, while he is burned or sliced or broken or ripped. Tiercel had never felt relief in a routine until that final, bittersweet moment when the guardian placed its killing blow to that barely-beating heart and the dun could feel a few moments of nothingness.
He would wake every time with her face pressed against the back of his eyelids. Tiercel cannot help but crave Islas now when he knows she is somewhere in this world. The stallion does not know who she is, and Tiercel wants to tell him that she is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, that she’s born from the stars, that she might have his child trailing her heels. Exhaustion keeps his tongue tied and he can only exhale a raspy, “Oh.”
Tarian (the dun-and-navy struggles to catch his name, and he works even harder to lock it away as a memory) asks him who he is. The guardian had asked that same question in the early days of their captivity, with a voice of a hundred voices. “Who are you?” The wrong answer (“Tiercel”) had the consequence of the torture that hurt him the worst. The right answer (“Nothing”) left him tensing for a pain that never came. It didn’t take long for Tiercel or the winged mare to catch on — in this world of bright light and dark clay, they were nothing.
Tiercel flinches instinctively, feeling the word form on his tongue — I am Nothing. He tries to crawl the rest of the way out of the lake instead of answering. He hopes that the guardian cannot reach him on dry ground, though Tiercel’s cerulean eyes still roll toward the depths of the water when he says, “I’m T… Tier — uh, I’m Tiercel.” His muscles shudder, and he uses the last of his energy to skitter further away from the water’s edge. “She’s here, somewhere.”
tiercel.
@[Tarian]