Her guiding hand beckons him. The dreamweaver wraps her long piano-player fingers around his head. She is humming so sweetly as her porcelain skin gleams beneath the blooming light of Beqanna’s heart. Those smooth palms cup his lion’s face, pick up that heavy head and place it soothingly upon her tucked-knee lap. Cooing floats slowly into his ears, accompanied by a trail of the faintest gold glimmers. Each little sparkle finds a home on his skull.
Warm, baby pink lips press kindly to his forehead. The woman places her mouth to his ear: You cannot stay here.
Litotes’ eyes flicker open just as they did when he began his journey. Sweat coats his body and blood pools around his head. He is warm and whole for a moment, despite the gruesome appearance of his body. Remnants of his angel linger in the corners of his mind, like the last bits of snow beneath a brilliant sun. The glitter that had fluttered from her lips moments ago are little stars upon his face.
For a second, he is a man, wiry muscles on bare arms struggling to lift his body. The magic shifts back and forth between visions: a man screaming as he rises, a lion-horse groaning on his knees. Neither knows the other exists, but their struggle is universal; it is sacrifice, it is meaning, it is absolute and unequivocal death of self.
Why is this what all gods ask of their people?
The pounding of his heart is so loud in his ears he thinks his chest may explode with the force of it. Litotes finally struggles to his feet, wincing at the crack of his knees and the unnatural bend of feet that do not belong to their legs.
Pinpricks of silver light reflect in the pupils of his eyes. They grow into silver disks as the vial draws closer. The cremello blinks several times, then his mouth goes dry. The cure lingers before his eyes for a moment more, then drifts to the center of his chest. The carved out “2” has caked layers of blood over his breast, yet the vial rests there as if it knows that substance is its most important ingredient.
As the fire begins to change, Lie’s breath catches in his throat. He holds that air between his mouth and his lungs, the dizzying feeling somehow grounding him as the magic continues to show him the extent of its power.
A mirror forms after a few seconds. The reflection he sees is one of a monster. Blood turns one half of his face entirely black and red. A long gash still oozes crimson across his skull. Lion ears twitch and twitch upon his head, paying no heed to Litotes’ pleads to quit their unnerving movements. He knows what is to come next - it sits at the very bottom of his stomach and sends poison through every fiber of his being. I cannot do this, he thinks.
The failure sits like a boulder upon his back for the reflection before him is an exact replica of the creature he has become. Mottled, gruesome, bloody with rage and revenge: the magic wants him to know.
Neglectful -
cold -
unforgiving -
arrogant.
Litotes’ mirror remains the same.
At first, he thinks it is just bile on the back of his tongue, then bloody vomit suddenly spews from his mouth. His maw is coated in the sick taste of his insides and the damning reality before him.
Kensa, I failed you. I failed you and every single one of our children.
A jaunting whoosh draws his tear-streaked face upward. The mirror is no longer a mirror but a portal. Though their lives are not as parallel as they will be in the future, his heart swells at the sight of her. Sunlight dapples her gold and chestnut, her hide gleaming and shimmering and begging him to come closer. The stallion gulps before stepping through, pained tears still streaming down his face.
“Litotes?” her voice is as silky as ever, even in her concern and confusion. The plague delivers its final blow, forcing his legs to waver and mouth to dangle with wracking coughs.
“Kensa,” he manages, though she is already trying to help him, “stop - please, I don’t think - I - have much time.” She rears back, first fury, then fear passing through her gaze.
“What are you talking about?” Her voice is cold.
“You have to take this,” he mutters through the blood flowing far too freely from his mouth. The cure floats forward, bobbing up and down directly between them. He can see the pursing of her lips through a fever-stricken haze - see the argument in her eyes. Lie musters his last remnants of strength. “Nothing you say will change my mind. I cannot live with more regret. You have to drink it, Kensa. Please.” He heaves after forcing such clear words out, head drooping so low his muzzle grazes the ground.
When she takes it, he feels the muscles in his body waver. They beg him to collapse, but one last touch of Kensa’s face to his keeps him standing for a few moments more. Whatever she says does not reach his ears.
He tucks his fevered cheek to hers and whispers, “I love you.” Litotes folds in on himself for what he believes to be the last time.
permission from lyr to powerplay kensa
Warm, baby pink lips press kindly to his forehead. The woman places her mouth to his ear: You cannot stay here.
------
Litotes’ eyes flicker open just as they did when he began his journey. Sweat coats his body and blood pools around his head. He is warm and whole for a moment, despite the gruesome appearance of his body. Remnants of his angel linger in the corners of his mind, like the last bits of snow beneath a brilliant sun. The glitter that had fluttered from her lips moments ago are little stars upon his face.
For a second, he is a man, wiry muscles on bare arms struggling to lift his body. The magic shifts back and forth between visions: a man screaming as he rises, a lion-horse groaning on his knees. Neither knows the other exists, but their struggle is universal; it is sacrifice, it is meaning, it is absolute and unequivocal death of self.
Why is this what all gods ask of their people?
The pounding of his heart is so loud in his ears he thinks his chest may explode with the force of it. Litotes finally struggles to his feet, wincing at the crack of his knees and the unnatural bend of feet that do not belong to their legs.
Pinpricks of silver light reflect in the pupils of his eyes. They grow into silver disks as the vial draws closer. The cremello blinks several times, then his mouth goes dry. The cure lingers before his eyes for a moment more, then drifts to the center of his chest. The carved out “2” has caked layers of blood over his breast, yet the vial rests there as if it knows that substance is its most important ingredient.
As the fire begins to change, Lie’s breath catches in his throat. He holds that air between his mouth and his lungs, the dizzying feeling somehow grounding him as the magic continues to show him the extent of its power.
A mirror forms after a few seconds. The reflection he sees is one of a monster. Blood turns one half of his face entirely black and red. A long gash still oozes crimson across his skull. Lion ears twitch and twitch upon his head, paying no heed to Litotes’ pleads to quit their unnerving movements. He knows what is to come next - it sits at the very bottom of his stomach and sends poison through every fiber of his being. I cannot do this, he thinks.
The failure sits like a boulder upon his back for the reflection before him is an exact replica of the creature he has become. Mottled, gruesome, bloody with rage and revenge: the magic wants him to know.
Neglectful -
cold -
unforgiving -
arrogant.
Litotes’ mirror remains the same.
At first, he thinks it is just bile on the back of his tongue, then bloody vomit suddenly spews from his mouth. His maw is coated in the sick taste of his insides and the damning reality before him.
Kensa, I failed you. I failed you and every single one of our children.
A jaunting whoosh draws his tear-streaked face upward. The mirror is no longer a mirror but a portal. Though their lives are not as parallel as they will be in the future, his heart swells at the sight of her. Sunlight dapples her gold and chestnut, her hide gleaming and shimmering and begging him to come closer. The stallion gulps before stepping through, pained tears still streaming down his face.
“Litotes?” her voice is as silky as ever, even in her concern and confusion. The plague delivers its final blow, forcing his legs to waver and mouth to dangle with wracking coughs.
“Kensa,” he manages, though she is already trying to help him, “stop - please, I don’t think - I - have much time.” She rears back, first fury, then fear passing through her gaze.
“What are you talking about?” Her voice is cold.
“You have to take this,” he mutters through the blood flowing far too freely from his mouth. The cure floats forward, bobbing up and down directly between them. He can see the pursing of her lips through a fever-stricken haze - see the argument in her eyes. Lie musters his last remnants of strength. “Nothing you say will change my mind. I cannot live with more regret. You have to drink it, Kensa. Please.” He heaves after forcing such clear words out, head drooping so low his muzzle grazes the ground.
When she takes it, he feels the muscles in his body waver. They beg him to collapse, but one last touch of Kensa’s face to his keeps him standing for a few moments more. Whatever she says does not reach his ears.
He tucks his fevered cheek to hers and whispers, “I love you.” Litotes folds in on himself for what he believes to be the last time.
permission from lyr to powerplay kensa
