09-12-2021, 06:03 PM
Death is exactly what he expects it to be. It comes slowly at first, hand in hand with the burning pain from the barb buried in his chest. It is only a sting at first, just a quiet chafing like his mind cannot fathom his own idiocy and so it refuses to participate in any of the consequences. But then that burn turns to an inferno that blazes like molten fire in his veins, a blinding agony that leaves him writhing in the dirt at the feet of whoever it is that stands in front of him.
He does not wonder why he cannot remember a name, a face.
He does not wonder if that is strange.
It doesn’t take long for his heart to stop beating, for that punctured thing inside his chest to finally deflate. He might’ve struggled more if he had the energy, the awareness, but poison had already taken its toll on both his mind and his body, so when darkness comes he does not struggle against it. He will be embarrassed by this willingness later, by this desire to cease to exist. But now it is something like relief, like an embrace. Like he is a shooting star in reverse, falling back away into a midnight sky.
Until.
Until.
She is a hook in his belly, a tether bound to a wayward soul. In his peace he finds this chafing, finds her presence here to be an inconvenience. Doesn’t she know that he is ready to go, ready to be done with a life - a world - so set on wounding him. Sorren. He growls, not with his voice but with whatever consciousness she refuses to let go of, whatever piece of him she keeps anchored to this place inside her chest. I won’t let you go, no matter how tired you are.
But that voice, that voice. The growl turns to a groan, and suddenly there is new pain that burns through his veins, new agony that has nothing to do with any kind of physical wrongness. How can she be here with him in this place. In the forest? In death? Did he kill her like he killed Splendora.
His soul is a thing that writhes and aches, something cold and reptilian as it coils and curls in on itself. You cannot be here. He thinks into the vastness of death that is only just barely out of reach, only just barely too far. Because he knows this voice, this girl, those stubborn green eyes the same shade as the moss that grows on the damp skin of the Tephran trees, and there is far too much life inside that stubborn creature to be meeting her here in death.
He does not understand.
Come back to me.
It is a strange thing to matter to someone, to have her pick up these unraveling pieces of him and hold them tight in trembling fists. He is absolutely certain that he has done nothing to deserve this, to deserve her loyalty. But her magic is something that commands him, and he finds that this decision to live or die is something that rests wholly in her stubborn will. Goddamnit Cheri. But even as he thinks her name, thinks of her - of green and gems and those beautiful wings, her frown and her stubborn scowl, he finds that he is less ready to leave.
There is more to know, more of her. More of them?
But that thought feels dangerous and so even now he falls away from it, falls away from her and this dark, falls back into a body that is once more writhing with renewed agony as she rewinds death, rewinds time, rewinds him.
“Cheri.” It is the first real word he speaks when he is finally able to again, the first sound that is not some wretched broken groan as his body heals and then shifts back to equine. He realizes she has never seen him like this before, and he is surprised by the way it feels so vulnerable. His blue merle coat is slightly darkened by the patches of sweat on his neck and his flank, and the white badger marking of his face and the matching white markings on his legs are dull with first from his writhing. He wonders what she will think of him like this, without the mystery of wondering what his true face is. Wonders what she will make of his antlers and the small blue and yellow flowers that climb through them and in his lighter, mottled hair. “I distinctly recall suggesting you be more gentle.” He says, and though his voice is still rough and low, it is not like the growl of the manticore. “I see that is still a work in progress, hmm?”
With a groan he opens his eyes to find her, but it is dark in these woods but for their own personal glowing. “I feel like I should warn you, as soon as night falls I will become a skeleton.” The words feel like so much work, like they exhaust him. He doesn’t even try to stand or lift his head, doesn’t move except to reach with his nose in the direction she stands. “Please do not try to heal me. Everything is fine.” There is a distinct wariness in his brown eyes as he recalls the pain of being healed by her.
He does not mention that it still feels as though half of him is left behind in the dark.
As though half of him is a void that watches the rest with cold, empty eyes.
“Why, Cheri?” The question comes as an exhale, and exhaustion is a thing that settles like a weight over his prone body.
He does not wonder why he cannot remember a name, a face.
He does not wonder if that is strange.
It doesn’t take long for his heart to stop beating, for that punctured thing inside his chest to finally deflate. He might’ve struggled more if he had the energy, the awareness, but poison had already taken its toll on both his mind and his body, so when darkness comes he does not struggle against it. He will be embarrassed by this willingness later, by this desire to cease to exist. But now it is something like relief, like an embrace. Like he is a shooting star in reverse, falling back away into a midnight sky.
Until.
Until.
She is a hook in his belly, a tether bound to a wayward soul. In his peace he finds this chafing, finds her presence here to be an inconvenience. Doesn’t she know that he is ready to go, ready to be done with a life - a world - so set on wounding him. Sorren. He growls, not with his voice but with whatever consciousness she refuses to let go of, whatever piece of him she keeps anchored to this place inside her chest. I won’t let you go, no matter how tired you are.
But that voice, that voice. The growl turns to a groan, and suddenly there is new pain that burns through his veins, new agony that has nothing to do with any kind of physical wrongness. How can she be here with him in this place. In the forest? In death? Did he kill her like he killed Splendora.
His soul is a thing that writhes and aches, something cold and reptilian as it coils and curls in on itself. You cannot be here. He thinks into the vastness of death that is only just barely out of reach, only just barely too far. Because he knows this voice, this girl, those stubborn green eyes the same shade as the moss that grows on the damp skin of the Tephran trees, and there is far too much life inside that stubborn creature to be meeting her here in death.
He does not understand.
Come back to me.
It is a strange thing to matter to someone, to have her pick up these unraveling pieces of him and hold them tight in trembling fists. He is absolutely certain that he has done nothing to deserve this, to deserve her loyalty. But her magic is something that commands him, and he finds that this decision to live or die is something that rests wholly in her stubborn will. Goddamnit Cheri. But even as he thinks her name, thinks of her - of green and gems and those beautiful wings, her frown and her stubborn scowl, he finds that he is less ready to leave.
There is more to know, more of her. More of them?
But that thought feels dangerous and so even now he falls away from it, falls away from her and this dark, falls back into a body that is once more writhing with renewed agony as she rewinds death, rewinds time, rewinds him.
“Cheri.” It is the first real word he speaks when he is finally able to again, the first sound that is not some wretched broken groan as his body heals and then shifts back to equine. He realizes she has never seen him like this before, and he is surprised by the way it feels so vulnerable. His blue merle coat is slightly darkened by the patches of sweat on his neck and his flank, and the white badger marking of his face and the matching white markings on his legs are dull with first from his writhing. He wonders what she will think of him like this, without the mystery of wondering what his true face is. Wonders what she will make of his antlers and the small blue and yellow flowers that climb through them and in his lighter, mottled hair. “I distinctly recall suggesting you be more gentle.” He says, and though his voice is still rough and low, it is not like the growl of the manticore. “I see that is still a work in progress, hmm?”
With a groan he opens his eyes to find her, but it is dark in these woods but for their own personal glowing. “I feel like I should warn you, as soon as night falls I will become a skeleton.” The words feel like so much work, like they exhaust him. He doesn’t even try to stand or lift his head, doesn’t move except to reach with his nose in the direction she stands. “Please do not try to heal me. Everything is fine.” There is a distinct wariness in his brown eyes as he recalls the pain of being healed by her.
He does not mention that it still feels as though half of him is left behind in the dark.
As though half of him is a void that watches the rest with cold, empty eyes.
“Why, Cheri?” The question comes as an exhale, and exhaustion is a thing that settles like a weight over his prone body.
sorren
i'll take my heart clean apart if it helps yours beat