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    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "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


    [open]  looking for heaven found the devil in me; any
    #2
    Sometimes One thinks of fire. And pine smoke. They are what she had yawned her eyes open to as she slipped from mother and into the mud. As she waited for Two and Three to arrive (a bitter taste of alone) she could see the gape of wounds and ruination in the pinewood. It had been nothing to her – normal. Beautiful, maybe, with its plume rising high above the dark teeth of trees and its stain of blood-red in the cracks of scorched earth.
    Her crib of ash and charcoal. Her playground of war and magic.

    (“Set.” Her first word, mouthed around the sour taste of distrust and suspicion.) She leaves Two and Three, perhaps sleeping, and every step feels like the uncomfortable tug of a choke around her neck – each finger presses its bruise onto her skin, ‘too far.’ “I’ll be back,” she whispers, softly, to her mirror and her completion. They always come together again. They gyrate around one another, whorling around pulls of gravity – they may stray as their trajectory juts out into cold, lonely space, but they are dragged back, always, by the base principles of physics. 

    She has utter faith in the science of their germination and birth – queer and unnaturally warmed, but so unnervingly together.

    But she smells it, it tickles her nose and her brain, and it baits her from them.
    She remembers.

    “I have to find something.”

    She hunts, too.

    (One. Two. Three. He had named them, each. “Witching. Gravely. Reap,” because mother had slipped back, dumb and deaf, into the darkness, tongue a-loll.) She sniffs the air, following the meaty scent like a hungry cat – soft-trodden and quiet. The smell of rot – memory comes with it, riding those strings of blackened and fly-eaten meat – mingles with the stagnant scent of dead grass, long interned in winter and excavated by spring.
    She scents the air, sucking in long inhales, her expression unchanged, as it is wont to do.

    Like a tracker fingering prints in the dust, she finds him. Though, his trail is more like heavy feet in deep mud, unmistakable and clean-edged. He may as well have dropped maggots like breadcrumbs behind him as he stalked.

    She looks at him, and she can see he is hungry.
    She blinks at him, as she once did, so long ago. But the brazen, naked flashes of grimy chestnut between the rancid land masses of dead flesh make her nostrils flare and quiver with the instinct to draw away from it. He must be like mum, she supposes, and she takes a careful step forwards – careful because she has Two and Three and return to. And he is very hungry.

    “Rodrik.” She mouths, her lip twitching. And he will not hurt her, she knows (in the way a lamb knows to follow wool, even if the wolf has skinned and donned it). 
    Long ago, he had named them, each – Witching, Gravely, Reap – and had touched them, one by one and smiled.
    Rodrik x Nocturnal
    immortal silver bay mare
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    Messages In This Thread
    RE: looking for heaven found the devil in me ; any - by Witching - 09-01-2016, 11:31 PM



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