"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
When the first wilted piece of grey ash had fallen across her view like a stray snowflake, she had startled. There hadn’t been fear though, and certainly no suspicion, but doubt had planted itself like a seed in her heart. When the stink of the Chamber had reached her nose, a familiar smell that (though she felt no love for it) reminded her of her family, suspicion blossomed. And when the smoke had gathered and thickened, voices and shouts bleeding into the chaos, fear had been borne within her.
There wasn’t a single hint of hesitation in her body as she leapt toward the chaos, picking her way through a forest she still didn’t know too well to a clearing she recognized even less. But it wasn’t courage that led her here, or bravery, it was the fear, the suspicion. She had spent a year of her life in the Chamber, maybe longer, she had a few friends there, family. And as she crested the edge of the clearing that looked out over the tree and the garden, she felt her heart smothered where it lay in her chest. Through the violence and the chaos she looked for her mother, her sister, her aunt. But none of them appeared from within the mass and it was suddenly a little easier to catch her breath. But then a dark silhouette did take shape, a devastatingly familiar one, and their eyes met for a heartbeat just before he disappeared.
“Erebor.” She breathed in dismay, the hollows of her dark, delicate face deepening.
This was what betrayal felt like.
Time passed impossibly slowly after that. Horses vanished, others finished their spars and wandered off to leave the kingdom to mourn. But Ilka couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Her heart ached so badly in her chest she considered ripping it free. Something had shifted within her, something important, and that innocence had fissured like a crushed porcelain ball. By the time she had lifted her chin again and those pale brown eyes fell back on the smoke and ash choked clearing, all of the Chamber had gone.
Suddenly, as though she’d been stretched too tight for too long, she exploded into a run. By the time she had reached the meadow, sweat gleamed in the hollow of her neck and in the curve of her flank. Her ribs heaved and the breaths came in short uneven bursts. On her skin was the stink of the Chamber, so faint, and the sweetness of the Gates. There was ash there too, acrid, and it burned her lungs. Exhaustion drew soft shadows into the hollows of her face, and as she stood there, frozen, a trembling began in the marrow of her bones.
“I can’t do this.” She breathed, just a flutter of sound as her chin tucked defeatedly to the curve of her narrow chest.
All things are possible, even the worst of things.
He thinks that he might suffocate if he has to stay confined within the Deserts any longer. It is ironic, considering they are rather known for their wide open spaces. But it is not the amount of space that brings about this sense of suffocation. No, it is the loss, the pain of the feelings bombarding him like well-aimed missiles. He feels it too keenly still, causing such a sense of loneliness and devastation that he simply cannot remain.
And so, as he crosses that sandy border, he breaths deeply of the crisp air, willing those swirling emotions to settle, to still so that he might have some manner of respite. What he needs, he thinks, is some company. And so he turns in the direction of the meadow.
The grassy expanse filled with souls from all corners of Beqanna gives him a sense of comfort, of welcome. He had spent many hours, many days, here when he was a youth. It had nearly become his home. While he would not trade in his Desert home for this place again (he belongs there, has a purpose, giving his once driftless life meaning), it feels good to be back here, to see what he had given up.
He is content merely standing there, drinking in the sight before him, until a figure dashes in front of him, sweat gleaming upon her dark coat. He is startled at first. One would think he had been paying close attention to his surroundings, given the way he had been looking around. But the truth is, he had not been. He rarely ever is. Hence the reason he is not a warrior, despite the fact that he is built like one.
She comes to a halt, devastation upon her features. It is an expression he recognizes, for he has felt it all too often of late. That alone induces him to approach. Isn’t it true that misery loves company?
The grin that so often adorns his features is conspicuously absent today. Not that she would know that, as they had never before met. But those that did know him would immediately see that something is wrong simply by the expression on his features. Even those that didn’t know him might be able to deduce such a thing. He rather tends to wear his emotions upon his sleeve.
Tell me about it.
He had heard her quiet words, and even in his grief, his ever-present humor cannot seem to be suppressed. Perhaps this is the wrong time and place, but then, he’s always been very good at saying inappropriate things.
Are you ok?
At least he is capable of some seriousness (albeit less often than he should be).
When father had left them, mother had taken them to the Chamber, to the only other family she still had left. Straia was queen, but she was also Oksana’s sister, not by blood but in all the ways that mattered. Ilka had stayed in the Chamber for a long while. Days turned into months until finally a year had gone and still there was an emptiness in her heart that not even her family could fill. The Chamber wasn’t home, it didn’t fit- Ilka didn’t fit.
So she had left for the Gates to see if that would be a better fit. Opposite worlds and her place was settled somewhere in between But now, with the soot stained grass and the ash that felt like snow, the stale scent of the Chamber on her dark skin felt like treachery.
When Shahrizai approaches her she’s still lost in her thoughts, drifting, sinking. So when he does speak and those pale brown eyes jump uncertainly to his face, there is hesitation etched into the hollows of her black and white face. But before her mind has a chance to consider him, to consider the importance of the words falling from her dark lips, her heart spills over.
“The Gates burned today.” Her voice is just a shattered sound, a tremulous whisper tipping at the edge of a bottomless chasm. Alone, that confession is disorienting, like part of a dark riddle. But she has nothing more to give him, nothing more to tell. “We burned” She says again, even quieter, and she wonders if he’ll notice the ash on her skin and the soot on her face.
But this time when her chin lifts and her eyes resettle on the pewter of his quiet face, she notices something. A familiarity resonating deeper than his face, an ache in the depths of his eyes. Like knows like. She steps closer, still trembling, still uncertain, but there is a new softness in her tone when she stretches her mouth to his cheek before pulling away to let the cold air fill in between them. “You have ghosts too, I think.” But she doesn’t ask because he hasn’t told her and there was nothing in her willing to pry out his secrets to leave gaping chasms behind on his heart. They all had their private haunts.
All things are possible, even the worst of things.
In some respects, her history had been quite similar to his, but in many others, so vastly different. He had made the most unlikely friends as a youth. He had called a mare from the Valley (who had lived decades, had a penchant for tripping over her own feet, and could not figure out children to save her life) his closest friend. She had been staunchly loyal to the kingdom until her last breath, even going so far as to try to convince him to join her beloved Valley on her death bed. He had been heartbroken when she had died, taking solace in her young daughters. But he had never been meant for the Valley, despite all the hours, days, he had spent there in his youth.
Instead he had become a drifter, wandering aimlessly between the Amazons and the meadow, unsure of what he should do with his life. At least he had been, until the realization had struck and he had been called to the Deserts.
As he studies the dark mare, taking in the ashes and soot staining her skin, he wonders what her story is. He had always enjoyed hearing other’s stories. It is one of his best qualities, as well as one of his biggest flaws. His curiosity. His hungry mind continually seeking all forms of knowledge. And he can tell, simply by looking at her, that she has quite a story to tell.
She does not disappoint him. The Gates burned today, she says. And what he feels is not disappointment, but alarm. What did she mean the Gates had burned?
His alarm is rapidly replaced by concern. The soot and ash tell him that she speaks true. The Gates had truly burned. But how? Why? His immediate reaction is a tactile one, stretching his muzzle forward to brush gently against her neck. It is a gesture meant to be comforting, to let her know that he is here. Bits of ashen dust fall from her neck where his skin meets hers, his breath causing soot to flutter and drop to the earth. Withdrawing only slightly, his warm brown gaze finds hers.
Are you hurt?
He has to ask, even though she appears perfectly hale. He would not wish her to suffer in silence while he natters mindlessly on.
Do you want to talk about it?
While his curiosity is foremost, ever present, he is kind enough that he would not wish to push her into discussing something that causes her pain. No matter what paroxysms he might suffer for lack of information. But then she continues, her insight astounding him. She had pegged him exactly. Unfortunately his ghosts are largely literal.
Yes.
He pauses, considering what to tell her. While he does not particularly mind sharing his woes, he must admit that hers are much more pressing. It is her gentle touch that finally decides him, causing the words to spill from his lips, his voice cracking as grief wells up once again.
It’s just that, everyone I love is dying. Or disappearing.
A shuddering breath escapes her lips when his nose presses to her neck. Reflexively she leaned into the touch, those pale brown eyes closing for just heartbeat as the racing of her pulse slowed. If he had been anyone but a perfect stranger, she would have tucked herself against his chest, buried her sooty white face in the tangle of his mane. Instead she held her distance, uncertain, with dismay etched like shadow in the dark hollows of her delicate face.
“I’m not hurt.” She tells him and her voice is just a whisper, a murmur of sound tainted by a poisonous shame. “I didn’t fight, I didn’t get there in time. I should have.” The look of dismay deepens and she turns her face from him, those nearly gold eyes cast low to the dirt and grass at their feet. “I-” her breath catches and she turns her broken face back to him, “I should have tried harder.”
His next question coaxes some softness back to her face, her eyes. “Yes.” Is all she says, her expression as quiet as the whisper of her voice. But she isn’t sure how much to tell him. She had been born in the Amazons, but her mother had never served the kingdom. They had stayed because father had family ruling, because it was as safe a place as any. But Ilka had never been involved in the Kingdom, not there, and certainly not when they had migrated to the Chamber. She had every intention of learning in the Gates, but she had only arrived a few weeks ago and the laws and common practice were still entirely unfamiliar.
“I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you,” her eyes lift and settle on his, shadowed by the furrowing of her brow, “I shouldn’t have told you.” But she doesn’t know this for sure, it’s a guess, a thought shaped in a frightened mind. But the realization wraps cold, skeletal fingers around her heart. What if telling him had hurt the kingdom in some way. Her stomach seizes. “I don’t know how do to this. I don’t know what I’m doing.” There’s an edge of desperation in the echo of her heartbroken confession.
And when he speaks again, her heart crumbles further, the edges turning to dust in her chest. She wants to tell him she’s sorry. Sorry for her clumsy observation, for his loss. But pity wasn’t a thing that healed, it was a dangerous feeling that had a habit of deepening the hurt. She takes a hesitant step closer, and another, so that she can slip beneath his neck and press her mouth gently to the curve of his chest. His heart beats beneath her lips. “They’re just in here now. You can keep them there forever.” She pulls back and her eyes lift imploringly to his, uncertain and vulnerable, “That’s what I do.”
All things are possible, even the worst of things.
The urge to step forward, to press into her, to offer comfort, is strong. He almost does, but he catches himself. He has always been so open, so free with his touches that he often forgets that not all horses care to be touched. But he remembers then, unwilling to inadvertently frighten her away. She appears so fragile with her slender frame and large, luminous eyes. The instinct to protect is a foreign one to him (he had always been surrounded warrior women, women who would rather protect themselves, women who would rather die than have a man protect them). But with her, the instinct is nearly undeniable. It is a novel experience to meet one who brings forth such a strong desire to shield and safeguard.
She is unharmed, and for that he is grateful. But she is wracked with guilt, appalled at her own actions, or lack thereof. He cannot prevent himself from brushing his muzzle against her then. A soft caress meant to sooth her self-recrimination.
Could you have done anything to prevent it? You should not feel guilty over this, especially if you did not have the power to stop it.
Sometimes, escaping with your life is simply the best course of action, because then it is possible to live to fight another day.
Their eyes meet as she continues, expressing sudden regret at having told him the tale. He breathes softly into her shoulder, pressing his dark muzzle against warm skin. He cannot regret that she had told him, cannot regret that she had entrusted him with such secrets. He would hold that trust because she deserves to have her faith restored. He can only hope that she will believe him.
You are doing just fine. I promise you that your secrets are mine. I won’t tell a soul if you don’t wish me to.
He smiles then, a small quirk of lips meant to be reassuring.
Would it help if I told you some of my secrets? Although, come to think of it, I can’t say I have too many.
And then she surprises him, stepping beneath his neck, pressing against him as her muzzle touches his chest, directly over his heart. He leans into her, taking comfort in her touch, in her kindness. Her words are softly assuring, reminding him of something he already knows. Something he had forgotten in his grief. But then, perhaps for him the hardest part had not been his grief, but the lack of support. And now she is here, providing him with exactly what he needs.
Even with the ghosts in his eyes and sorrow wedged like a stone in his chest, he remains steadfast. She finds herself steadied by the evenness of his gaze, his words, the slow rise and fall of his ribs. For a moment she tries to focus on her own breathing, on the rapid tremble of her heart and the flutter of her pulse shaking in her veins. Her eyes close, just for a moment, a heartbeat in time, and she exhales shakily. But when she opens her eyes again and lifts them to his concerned face there is a new quiet there. It’s pulled tight, so taut, like a membrane stretched thin over her face, but it’s there and it’s honest.
She is surprised by his question, by the kindness etched into his voice and the softness of his eyes. “I might’ve, if I tried.” She tells him quietly, battling fresh waves of shame ebbing and flowing beneath her skin. But even as she says it, she doesn’t believe it. “There was no way to stop them,” she says again, her voice distant as the memory replays across her thoughts, “they were so prepared. So strong.” She finds herself suddenly unable to meet his glance, instead tucking her chin back to her chest. For the first time in her short life she found herself wishing she could be more than just the plain black mare with no gifts or talents. How else would she be any good to those she loved.
When he touches her shoulder, his breath a welcomed heat against her satin black skin, her wide eyes lift uncertainly to his face. “What good is a promise between strangers?” Her voice is soft, a tremulous whisper, but there is a note of sincerity in her question. An absence of accusation. And then- “I trust you, but maybe it isn’t my secret to tell.”
When she steps against him to trace the place above his heart and he leans in to welcome her touch, she folds herself in closer to him. With a tight sigh and uncertainty etched into the soot and shadows of her dark, delicate face, she presses her cheek to the slant of his shoulder. Ilka’s mother had a tendency to love fiercely, to crush her children to the curve of her chest at the first sign of uncertainty. So tucked here, curled into the warmth and strength of a perfect stranger, a kind stranger, Ilka felt stronger again. She felt more like herself. “I don’t need your secrets,” she says quietly, an indecisive smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, “secrets are secrets for a reason. If you wanted to tell me, then I don’t think it would count as a secret anymore.”
And then, with that small smile still ghosting her lips – though it darkens just a little with the weight of her words, “You make me miss home,” a pause, stretched so taut it trembled wildly in the air between them, “you make me miss feeling safe.”
All things are possible, even the worst of things.
He feels her shiver against him, a gentle, barely perceptible flutter of motion as her breath leaves her lungs on a sigh. He presses closer to her, brushing his muzzle softly against her cheek. Her strained features ease ever so slightly, the barest release of tension, but nonetheless gone. His heart aches in his chest as he gazes at her still tense features, wishing he could ease her pain further, wishing he could have been there for her. But he was not, could never be. He could only be here now, offering what little comfort a stranger may.
She tells him just a little more, the tiniest bits and pieces of what had happened to her home. The shame and regret are there, in her words, in her tone, her body. Even as the words she speaks tell a story of a terrible and relentless foe, what she leaves unspoken tells so much more.
There is no shame in your actions. Why would doom yourself to death when you could live to fight another day? To prepare yourself, to become even stronger than they?
Stretching his muzzle, he nudges gently at her cheek, silently encouraging her to lift her head, to see the truth of his words in his eyes. If there is anyone who could understand her feelings of inadequacy, it is he. He is as plain and ungifted as she, his only discerning feature a missing tail. But that does not mean he is powerless. And neither is she. Supernatural abilities are not what make a horse. And if they are, then, well, they are not much of a horse, are they?
Do you believe that they will keep this secret? The attackers? It strikes me that they will want to crow about this from the mountaintops.
He smiles at her then, charmed by her integrity. Sadly it is something so few have, even in his home that had once been considered the epitome of light and goodness. But it shines from her, a purity that he hopes she will allow no one to taint. He cannot claim to be half so good.
It is fortunate then that I have so few secrets.
His dark eyes shutter briefly as she presses into him, delicate frame warm against his skin, her cheek against his shoulder. It is true, they are strangers, acquainted for only a short span of time. But she does not feel like a stranger. No, she feels like an old friend, one he has not seen for ages. He wonders if she feels it too. He hopes so.
As her words tremble across the air, he tucks his large head, pressing his dark muzzle against the ash dusted skin of her shoulder. He wishes that he could give her that feeling of safety. But with the horrific violation against her home still lingering on her dark coat, he doubts even his most earnest efforts would be enough to make her feel safe. Not for a long time to come.
He returns her smile with a faint one of his own, one tinged by sadness. He voices none of his previous thoughts, but what he does tell her is nothing less than the truth.
When his nose finds the curve of her sooty cheek, she closes her eyes and leans lightly into the soft of his touch. In that moment she cannot help but feel like she was meant to come to the meadow, meant to run from the fire, if only to find him here. A stranger who felt so impossibly like family it made her heart ache with a false loneliness. She loved the hint of a smile on his mouth, the light in his eyes (though it was dampened some with concern), the way he seemed to notice that touch had a manner of pulling her from her self-pitying thoughts.
“Thank you.” She tells him in a murmurous voice. When she drops her cheek from his touch, her eyes fall open again, a brown so pale they almost seem gold. Her chest expands with a sigh, and when she exhales it leaves the hint of a frown on her dark, uncertain mouth. “I just wish I could be more for them. They’re family now, and family is everything.” Her heart tightens in her chest as images of the Queen being taken away play on repeat behind her eyes.
Her head hangs a little lower then, subtly, and she hopes the ash and shadow is enough to hide the defeat that stretches across her delicate face. “I know it isn’t my fault, I couldn’t have changed anything, but it gives my pain some direction if I can blame myself.” She pauses and looks at him, really looks at him, and there is something dark that flickers just beneath the surface of her eyes, a thought that pulls her back under. She does not want to tell him that her family lives in the offending kingdom, that she had seen a friend and he had led the charge. It hurts too much, even if she knows how silly it is.
“They might.” She says in answer to his next question, her eyes tracing whorls in the dirt at their feet. But that doesn’t mean I have to. She thinks with a furrowed brow. But when her eyes lift to his face, to the earnest concern knit in the furrow of his brow and the kindness shining in those eyes, she knows she’ll tell him. “They took Fiasko.” She breathed, her voice wavering painfully. “They took the Queen.” And it’s like the confession took a piece of her heart with it as she crumples before him, her shoulders hunched and every muscle clenched painfully tight beneath her smooth black skin.
His next words pull her face back to him, her pale brown eyes to his. And even though her face is buried in shadow, she still finds a smile for him, just the hint of one, touching the corners of her velvet mouth. “I know.” She tells him in an impossibly soft voice. "I feel it too." That kinship beyond words, beyond explanation. And then, “I’m glad I came. I’m glad I met you.”
All things are possible, even the worst of things.
A soft sigh escapes him as she leans into his touched. He had missed this, such close camaraderie and friendship. It doesn’t matter that he had met her only a short time ago. That feeling of instant connection is undeniable, gladdening his heart while producing a sense of nostalgic sadness at the same time. He wishes this moment could last forever, that reality did not need to intrude on such a perfect snapshot of time.
But alas, nothing lasts forever. He knows this more than most. A quiet sadness touches his features at her next words, even as the small smile curves his lips. Yes, family is everything. His love for his family runs very deep, and the aching hollowness at the reminder of his parents is almost debilitating. He would give anything to bring them back here, to tell them one last time that he loves them, to hear them say the same to him. Just once more.
Family is everything. You are lucky to have them, and they to have you.
His words are entirely serious. It is unusual for him to have such a sober and meaningful conversation. He has always had a quick joke and ready laugh. But today, he thinks, today he is ready. He doesn’t wish to hide his pain any more. Nor should she have to hide hers.
Sometimes pain has no direction. It just is.
His words are soft, directed at himself as much as they are directed at her. He sees the brief shadow that crosses her features, and he wonders at that. But then, he reminds himself, she had just endured a terrible tragedy. Who wouldn’t have dark thoughts? He presses closer, ducking his head to brush his muzzle briefly against her. A silent offer of comfort.
She continues, telling him of her queen’s kidnapping. A frown touches his lips briefly as his eyes find hers. Who would be so bold as to kidnap another kingdom’s ruler? Surely that would mean war, for even if they are small, the Gates must have allies.
But now is not the time to discuss the possibility of war. Instead he offers what comfort he may.
I’m so sorry. Were you close to her?
Even without knowing it, she gives him exactly what he had needed. The smile that touches her lips, the soft words that he must strain to here, her unwittingly reassuring touch, all of it soothes him in a way little else has been able to thus far. He smiles then, a genuine smile full of warmth and appreciation.
Me too.
His voice is nearly as soft as hers when he speaks, falling slowly away into silence on the repeat as he leans into her warmth.
