"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
08-30-2015, 03:59 AM (This post was last modified: 09-02-2015, 02:12 AM by Makai.)
they call kids like us vicious and carved out of stone but for what we've become, we just feel more alone
The pain is visceral. It is tangible in its physically—the way it clogs his throat and twists his gut and burns his skin hot with self-loathing. He had stumbled away from Oksana half-blind with it, not even bothering to say good bye, but hoping that he had been able to play it off as if he no longer cared to see her. (She had to see right through him, he thought in one moment. Dear God, please let her believe it, he thought in the next.)
She had to believe it. He had detonated everything he had held dear, and it had to be worth it. It was the only thread that was holding him together—the belief that what he had done was right. The hurt in her eyes, the sheer agony that had mirrored his own so well, had nearly crippled him, but he had to believe in his heart of hearts that she would heal and be better for it. The temporary pain was better in the long run than the poison of keeping someone broken like him in her life. He was a monster, and he accepted that burden, but he was a monster with the best of intentions. It was the only thing that kept him going.
Now, he is racing through the meadow as he had done before she had collided in his life like a supernova. His neck is lathered with sweat, his nostrils flaring, his powerful body catapulting through the trees with reckless abandon. He can feel all of his ghosts as the press down upon his shoulders: the flashing dreams (no, memories, he knows that they are memories now) of his own death, the faces of each child that he has abandoned, the water-logged jungle where he had hunted for days to find his dead parents, and her.
She is the most cutting of memories: her green eyes flat, her expression blank with pain.
It is only when he cannot run another second that he he finally stops, gasping for breath, his chest feeling as if it might explode with agony. He wanted anything—anything—to take his mind off of it. He wanted to hurt, to be hurt, to kill; it was shameful the way he longed for the power of it. He was desperate for the distraction or, perhaps, the justification. As if he could only keep proving to himself how unworthy he was of her.
He cannot begin to fathom why they do these things to themselves. Love, affection, devotion, consideration. They tangle themselves up in something they believe to be tangible and everlasting, and then unsurprisingly it crashes in around them until the suffocating truth strips bare what had been hidden all along. There is no such thing as a fairytale ending. Life is always swift to remind them of it, but time and time again they brush their fingers against the hope that it could be real, and they seem surprised when it bites them to the point of bleeding. Stupid, careless lot.
The falcon tilts it’s head, one incredibly round, incandescent eye blinking as it observes the breathless stallion. He’d made quite a disturbance in Zeik’s little corner of solitude, crashing through the bracken with reckless abandon as if he were escaping some invisible demon. Zeik has no idea how close he is with such thoughts, he only finds himself ruffled by such a display because the stallion has, through his actions, frightened away any prey the blue-grey bird was hoping to catch. Winter is a burden on any species, and Zeik is especially annoyed by the lack of dignity in the dark horse’s commotion.
With the duck of his head he gathers himself, plummeting off his barren branch so that he can drift to the earth with silent accuracy. Mid-flight he shifts, finding it inconvenient but unavoidable in the given situation. With a heavy thud he lands, a curiously whole blue-roan stallion who now gazes upon the smoky black with a dull, uninterested eye. “I would hope that your actions have good reason driving them, because if not I’ll be tempted to claw your eyes from their sockets for scaring away my hopeful dinner.”
It’s not a threat, that much is clear from the dead tone he delivers his speech with, but Zeik has never been a conversationalist. His umber-colored ears flick back and forth, wondering if indeed the horse is being followed.
they call kids like us vicious and carved out of stone but for what we've become, we just feel more alone
Shifting animals is one thing that does not phase Makai, and so he does not bat an eyelash as the bird becomes horse in front of him. It was one of his father's favorite tricks, the shifting mid-step, and his stomach knots at the thought of it. As if he needed one more thing to make him angry at the world; as if he needed to think about one more thing that became unburdened on his shoulders—hateful and unforgiving.
“I would like to see you try,” he snarls and means it. If there was one thing that Makai wanted, it was a good fight; he wanted to feel his blood pumping behind his eyes with good purpose, the feel of the rage against his skin, the anger directed toward a goal. He wanted nothing more than the release of pain and the hurt himself, the infliction as much pleasure as the simple act of inflicting on another.
He was practically begging for a good fight.
“Not that I owe you one damn good reason in the first place,” although part of him is hoping that the other stallion insists on it. It would give him an outlet and something to think about other than the blank stare that Oksana had given him, her words so final (‘Don’t expect me to come looking for you’). There is part of him that is relieved that it seems to have worked, that he had finally succeeded in driving her away; and yet, the larger part of him is wild with grief, sick with regret at what he had done.
Sighing, he dropped his head a little, nostrils still flaring with exertion, his neck still lathered with sweat. “There are some things that cannot be explained.” It was the closest that he felt like getting to the wound tonight; he certainly did not feel like unpacking his emotions to a stranger. Flicking his gaze upward, her considered him for a second before giving him one curt word: “Makai.” An introduction, of sorts.
Zeik likes it when they get angry. He enjoys the murderous flash that glints behind the stallion's eyes when his words finally sink in. “Come on…” he wants to say, “Let go of your inhibitions and be the mindless animal that you are.” He doesn’t know that his shifting disturbs the dark horse, but he wouldn’t care either way. It’s something the other creature will never understand. There is a raw animosity to living in his other form - eat or be eaten, starve or survive. There is no wayside, no room for emotion or longing or connection. Only finality and a sharp instinct. Perhaps, if Makai could’ve experienced it, he would think otherwise on the matter. The reason Zeik likes anger on this creature so much is because for the first time he can see the truth lurking behind the veil. No more pretending or shame, only a visceral fever for blood.
“You’d be surprised at what I can accomplish.” Zeik replies, brushing off the guttural threat with no more than the roll of his eyes. But Makai isn’t finished, and Zeik listens with half-hearted interest. The sigh that drops from Makai’s mouth sickens Zeik, and he wants to turn away from him in that instant and be gone, leaving behind the slobbering idiot for some other creature to mourn over. But what the black says in finality roots him to the earth, and his inquisitive gaze narrows as if to mock the other horse. “Oh please.” He drawls, the corners of his lips pressing into a dissatisfied frown. “There’s an explanation for everything. You’ve obviously just chosen to believe that somehow your problem is magnanimous in a way that I couldn’t comprehend.”
The latter is more along the lines that Zeik just doesn’t care about Makai or his problems. He shouldn’t be wasting his time trying to talk sense into a creature that clearly knows nothing of the sort. But he has nothing more pressing to occupy his time so he remains, “Makai.” he repeats, offering only “Zeik.” in return. His head tilts, pausing momentarily to assess the situation before continuing. “I’ve got no objectivity on the matter, so please, explain the unexplained to me.”
TAKE ME UNDERGROUND, TAKE ME ALL THE WAY
BRING ME TO THE FIRE, THROW ME IN THE FLAMES
Makai cannot comprehend the idea of living so mechanically; of removing ones self from their emotions and going through life so robotically. He couldn’t imagine. His entire life was rooted entirely in pain. He had been born into a world where his parents had drowned (how he had searched for them!). He had been taken from life by a brother who had murdered him. And then, when he had come back, it was only at the will of the Chamber. His whole life hung on her very whim, and he knew as easily as she had breathed life back into his lungs, she could drain it all away. All he had to do was disobey once, or fail to return to her long enough, and just like that, he would be back in the ground where he had been all those years ago.
So he doesn’t understand a life free of the pain—one not completely reigned by it—and he scowls at the falcon-stallion before him. “As tempting as that is, Zeik,” he puts an unnecessary amount of emphasis on the name, as if it felt poisonous on his tongue, “but I think that I will pass.” How could he explain how the supernatural ruled his life? The sludge that ran through his veins. The way he died slowly every second he was not in a kingdom that he hated; how he often woke up coughing blood onto the dirt.
Worse, how does he explain his ability to so cruelly hurt the one soul in this world that he loved without reservation? How does he explain the deep-rooted knowledge that he is a monster and he kills what he loves? He can’t. He knows that—and he knows that he doesn’t owe the blue roan stallion a thing. So he just lifts his gaze, steady now, and he watches the other stallion. “How about you tell me something,” there is a pause as he considers the other for a second. “Tell me how someone can be both so dispassionate and yet so curious as to the suffering of others.”
So they’ll play the back-and-forth game. Zeik is alright with this. Makai is just someone (amongst the many) that he’ll never understand. But it doesn’t mean that all hope is lost for him, far from it actually. Where one door closes, another opens. In Makai’s case, Zeik thinks it’s just a lack of perspective. The poor boy just needs encouragement. Regardless of the fact that Makai is bound by some unnatural force, which Zeik knows nothing about, the roan figures that the least he can do is somewhat entertain the questions posed by his irritable companion. A bit of a distraction, if you will. “Well, firstly because I’ve never experienced anything like what you’re experiencing. I suppose the point of it all evades me.” He says, rubbing his nose against his knee while he thinks a bit more on the subject.
“Secondly, because you’re choosing to still hold a conversation with me. That, above all else, tells me that perhaps there’s something worth being curious about.” He finishes, glancing at Makai with a pointed stare. Had the other stallion truly been aggravated, and Zeik himself totally uninterested, the two would have parted ways as soon as they had met. But there’s still something nagging the roan, and he won’t be appeased until he garners some sort of a complete reply from the other horse.
“Tell me,” he asks, “Is there no way to fix what’s happened? No going back?”
TAKE ME UNDERGROUND, TAKE ME ALL THE WAY
BRING ME TO THE FIRE, THROW ME IN THE FLAMES
“There is no going back,” he spits out and there is a finality to the words, his voice punctuating the end of the sentence with both grief and rage. How he wished that there was a way for him to not only rewind the clock but rework himself—making himself into something that was worthy of Oksana. All he wanted was to know that he somehow deserved her; that he had not shattered the only thing that he had cared about and that he could somehow still live that fantasy life he had foolishly thought was possible by her side.
He was a dreamer of the dangerous kind; his dreams were not without their consequences.
Shaking his head, he narrowed his gaze at the mechanical stallion before him, before rolling his shoulders. “Some things are broken beyond repair.” Uncomfortable, still lathered with sweat and practically shaking with pent-up anger, he snorted and stomped a foot. “I am quite done talking about myself though.” It wasn’t comfortable ground for him; it never had been and never would be.
“So why don’t you tell me more about yourself,” he needles, shifting in his spot and considering his temporary companion. “Have you always been able to shift?” he asks, although his curiosity for the subject was shallow. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the story (although he didn’t exactly care), it was just that he was desperate for something to take his mind off of his own wounds—and, currently, all the conversation doing was putting his pain under a magnifying glass.
Zeik listens, but he doesn’t hear. If Makai had no way to turn back or save what was lost, then what was stopping him from finally doing whatever it was that he needed to do? With nothing to live for, why does one go on? Zeik considers Makai the most curious of paradoxes, but he finally understands that the smokey stallion will not budge on the subject of explaining himself, so he must be content with what he’s gathered so far. They’re an odd pair, to be sure, but this is the most interaction Zeik has had with another horse in a very long time. So it saddens him when Makai turns the conversation over to him. How could Zeik explain that he had no story to tell? Surely the other stallion would grow bored.
But if he insisted, then Zeik would comply.
The question Makai poses is a rather dull one, but it’s one that Zeik actually has some back story on. The roan half-smirks, eyes rolling away from his companion so that he can recall an image of his mother. Yes, even lonely falcons have their own beginnings. “Technically yes, I was born with this trait. But, like anyone with a skill, I had to master the craft.” He remembers his early years on the outskirts of the Desert with Celestina. Keeping away from everything Beqanna had to offer while he perfected his transformations and took flying tips from his dam. Celestina had been gifted with wings too, but they were permanently attached to her body. The two had flown together until Zeik had learned that she had no more to offer, and then shifted and darted away, remaining in his Falcon form until he’d matured.
In fact, up until recently, he’d spent less time in his horse form than he had in his raptor one. “I’ve spent my life here, in the meadow. A vagabond, if you will.” He chuckles, turning back to look at Makai. “So I guess we’re not so different after all.” Despite himself, he begins to think that he’s enjoying Makai’s company. “I guess the question is: what’ll I do now?” He says, tail flicking absently at his haunches. “What will you do now?” He asks, forgetting about the stipulation Makai has set.
TAKE ME UNDERGROUND, TAKE ME ALL THE WAY
BRING ME TO THE FIRE, THROW ME IN THE FLAMES
The world of Beqanna seemed to be brimming with those gifted at birth. The ability to shift, to change at one’s whim, to control the world around them—it had become commonplace. Makai had been born into a family brushed with his magic, but a magic of a different kind. His family was rooted in the power of the kingdoms. His father had sacrificed his heart to the Chamber and she had given him life in return; Atrox and the Chamber’s relationship was complicated, deep, and all-encompassing. Makai had learned a long time ago that despite his father’s love for Twinge, nothing would come close to his love for that pine-covered forest. So it, perhaps, was not surprising that Makai’s life was infected with the same magic.
He had been dead, once—murdered by his own brother—and he too had been given life from the Chamber. But his life had come with a heavy cost and an ongoing demand. Spend too long away from her, and he would begin to fall back into death once more. He would become plagued by nightmares, his lungs weak, and his coughs splattering blood on his lips. Only returning to the Chamber would cure him. It was a power play, but it was effective. He knew that if the Chamber called, he would have to obey.
Obey or die. What a wicked gift he had been given.
Not that he feels like sharing that with Zeik. Instead he just nods. “The life of a vagabond is not a bad one,” he muses, wishing for the simplicity of not having anyone to answer to or any responsibilities weighing down on your shoulders. “I don’t know what I will do,” he responses, ignoring the fact that the questions have once again pointed back toward him. “I have made some rather poor decisions for myself in the past.” His smile is tight and bitter. “Perhaps you should tell me what I should do next.”
