i hold hope like water; any

[rapt]

there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail ------ the dream of about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream ------------ but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever The other stallion surprises him – Rapt is used to being ignored. He doesn’t factor into anyone’s day to day, and there is nothing garish about him – he’s handsome enough, but not stunning, and he’s traitless, no wings or horns or deeper powers to catch the eye or draw them in. But the stallion – dark, save for a strange tumescence of red on his nose – approaches, asks him a question. What do you seek? Rapt wants to say, if I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be here. Everything he seeks is abstract – a feeling he can’t articulate, a homesickness for places that do not exist, the desire to bend his knee to monsters and queens who want him for a moment, but are quick and eager to cast him aside. He seeks nothing, because how do you seek a monster who will ignite fear in your heart and make you feel alive? (Or: how do you admit such a wont to a stranger? You don’t, that’s how.) “I live here, I suppose,” he says. It’s as good a home as any. The deserts were home, once, but that was years and reckonings ago. He doesn’t have desire for anything else. “I seek…” he trails off. Everything and nothing. Names crowd his throat but he swallows them down. “Peace, I think,” he says, finally, “I seek peace.” He nods to the stallion then, a backward greeting, having already answered the questions. “My name is Rapt,” he says, “and what brings you here, stranger?” rapt caius x else