"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
The midnight hour had come again, the slither of moon suspended in the inky black heavens like a knife edge, glinting through the thick pines with razor sharp plumes. The darkness, pitch and oh so welcoming, swathed me in a blackness, the shadows blanketing me in their gentle caress. the woods were dark, yet my coat was a glossy penny (it had finally returned to normal, the black bodice fading back to the gilded colour, my mane now back to gossamer cream. however in places the ebony and crimson tint still remained.) a glossy penny shimmering in the dark, like watery depths, rippling and distorting as I weaved in and out of the trunks, bending my head and neck low as I navigated the trickier paths around the Chamber's outskirts.
Things were different here now, the fingers of magic had knitted and sewn and had created a new creation. Our Queen, Straia, she had sleek raven's at her disposal. A crown so fitting for the coloured queen. The pulse of Atrox's heart, it still thudded, if not having calmed a little. I still listened in the night, listening with attuned ears for the pulse. It was becoming quite a security blanket for me. I know then, though lost in the darkest parts of the woodland, the heart would guide me home. Cliche and beautifully marred in my thinking, my wanderings take me deeper, darker into the forest. Part of me wanting to lose myself, something different to the duties of Chamber Life. I wanted to discard my mask for a few hours and lay beneath the starless black sky, and remember the things I had pushed away.
Oh, but such memories are not meant to be remembered.
The trunks gave way a little and I found the perfect spot for reflecting; a flattened patch of dried leaves and wildflowers, fungi and shoots of wild grass. Above, I craned my head and watched the guardian pines as they gave way a little at the top, allowing the slither of the crescent moon to shine down and radiate the place. Calling me, telling me it was fine to rest.
My sinews taut beneath my willowy frame, bone deep chills succumb finally, and I drop to my knees, the dust and ash of the chamber, wreck and ruin, taint me with their glorious dirty fingers, and I feel home in the dirt. I drop to my side and extend my neck, resting my chin on the damp earth. Sapphire yes wide open, ears still very much attentive, listening to the sounds of the night. The wolves sing songs of sorrow, lamentations that decorate the night with an eerie feel. The ravens, they caw and perch atop the sentinels, as added guardians to the chamber. their wings rustling, extending. I blow a long, exasperated breath. Exhaustion lines my eyes, fine wrinkles marring my golden face. My eyes are tired, there is a gloss of something other than fire brimming, tears. hot, wet tears well at the corners of my eye.
I had not cried before. The emotion, it was saved for my mother and her heart wearing sleeves. To cry, it was a weakness and a terrible one at that. I squinted shut my eyes and remembered her then. Her golden body, sleek with crimson, damp with the ocean's fine spray. She lay a broken doll, her pieces scattered, her heart the only one to remain whole, even when it had been broken too many times to count. I never cried, even then. After the blood of the men tainted my hooves, I had went in search of her, after ending my father's life, I had known my mother would not take it too well, but I wanted to help her, to take her out of that life. when I found her, it had been too late.
The nightmarish visions keep coming, as do the hot, wet tears that start to trickle down my cheeks, darkening my face with marks of sorrow. I threw myself into working here, into attempting steals, rummaging the field for the ripe pickings to help the Chamber grow. I was active as active could be, and yet, yet I am faltering now. The torrents of the past, they wave over me, sending shivers through my skin. The pain, I had remembered the pain of the first time I was nearly taken. Oh, it was the beauty that caused it. the gloss in my coat, the way my long, gossamer threads swept over my lithe neck. It was my fault the bachelors tried to accost me, but it was their fault, that their heart decorated the ground. the taste was bittersweet, a tang I never really wanted to coat my mouth again. A rage had bubbled in the pits of my stomach, throes of anger, red hot and blistering, it turned into a terrible inferno and I burnt down the remainders. I was younger than I am now, yet the world had turned from my mother's fairytale bliss to the harsh truth. The world was a dark place, filled with monsters with daggers behind their backs. And it was my job to see them for what they are.
There is a gratitude in me, pulsing just as ripe as Atrox's heart. Perhaps it is my own, deadened organ, actually thudding against the ribbed cage. drumming like xylophone. but it is there, the thankfulness. Beqanna was proving a far greater place than I imagined, The Chamber, proving a solid home. Those I have met, they are shaping up in my head, little tales weaving about them in the back of my mind.
Yet, the tears still come and it angers me so. My own heart races against Atrox's, my mind a myriad of memories, painful, gluttonous memories. Sleep fails me, every night. These visions, these nightmares, they hit me like fallen rocks, making me dizzy with fear. But what am I meant to fear, if it is not my own past? I ran, I ran from it all and yet it follows me as dark, as imposing as my own shadow. And it breaks my mask right in front of me, shatters it into two, and I am helpless to watch the the fine threads of my deception falling in a jumble at my feet.
Perhaps, this is all a nightmare and I will wake up soon. The hot tears figments of my imagination. The thundering of my heart, a concoction of nightmarish monsters. Ah, yes, that is exactly what it is.
The bay stalks through the treeline, his nightly rounds forever weaving through the borders. Killdare caresses the trees with each pass, scenting a few as he goes, their charcoal casings fading. The chamber was repairing rapidly now it seemed, perhaps the many new members were aiding it's life. Even still it might be attributed to the visiting fairies, and his Queen's new powers, but he didn't know for sure.
Instead of dwelling long on things he does not understand, he lifts his maw and continues on his path. The night is dark, the summer skies warm but without the twinkling spheres that commonly adorned it. He is a shadow among the darkness, creating his own threads through the pines, straying from the worn paths. The air is warm, thick, the summer heat having breached the forests borders. He isn't surprised, though it is no less uncomfortable.
Overhead the ravens caw, they are many now, fueled by magic. They greet him from the treetops, or he likes to think they do and he returns a grunt in their direction. He stops momentarily to check on the sprout, the seed they were gifted had began to break through the earth, a tiny thing still. He checks over his shoulders, looking once to the left, then again to the right. Deciding he is alone, he croons softly to the seedling, a gruff but smooth baritone. He finishes and moves along, hoping that the roots will take and all their work would be fruitful.
Killdare is thinking, perhaps too hard, watching the ground as he walks. His seaglass glare falls over whisps of spider's silk, strewn across the lichen and forest floor. He follows the form as the tresses end leading into the sunlight chassis of Engelsfors, he had never seen her dirty that he could recall. Her face was trackmarked, lines of saltwater glinting at the corners of her eyes, the evidence leaked on her face. In one movement, perhaps as graceful as he had ever been, he lowers his mass to the ground giving her little choice in the matter. His neck hooks to turn his crown before it lays across her neck, and he is silent...
The heat of the summer night taints me with patches of perspiration, my shoulders, just behind my armpits and the tender flesh beyond my plume. The moist earth attracts me, needles and crushed leaves stuck to me as I turn, rolling slightly into the cool, refreshing earth. Mother would have hated it, the ash, the dirt, the blackness. She was a sunset mare, through and through. Even at the very end, she had tried to reach for the sun. I'm a world full of darkness that was an impossible task.
I had lost all sense of it all; the earth felt cool against my skin, the quivers of nightly breeze now gone, feeling nothing but the stagnant air. That made my lungs full of arid air. My nostrils flared, flanks rising and falling. Peppered skin throbbing with veins. Oh, I looked a mess, an earthy and forgotten mess. And for now in the midnight hour. I revelled in it all.
The silence is deafening; the Ravens caw above breaking the stillness. My sapphire gaze rolls to the heavens but my head still remains against the leafy pillow mounds. I sigh, it rolls through my shoulders and reverberates through my spine. When I look up, the shadows leak a presence, reddish bay, earthy, like crisp autumn leaves. He weaves his presence ever near. I'm about to move, to shift back to my feet -- I cannot lounge infront of him, a soldier to the end, mind always ticking over. I could not laze on his presence. My damp eyes still swell with tears and I choke back the urge to cry out into the night.
He's down beside me, warm and real. His heartbeat resonating louder than even Atrox's in my eardrums. As his head laid across my neck, his pulse merged with my own. I felt the leakage of saline threaten once more but I tightly sealed them shut. No more tears will fall, not before Killdare. He has already seen my Mask discarded and thrown, broken in pieces in the floor. I don't know how much more rawness he could see.
'Stay.' I say, my lips quivering against the word. He is hot against my already tepid frame, but it's that realness that warmth of life that separates nightmare from reality. And the warmth it was thawing my numbed insides.
'Stay.' I say again, nestling my head in the book of his chest cavity. Warm, safe. I plead with twinkling gem eyes, before closing them and revelling in nothing but the stillness and the the the thudding of Killdare's heart. Of course, he had one somewhere in that body of his. And tonight, tonight I was grateful it were him that found me and no one else.
07-14-2015, 08:56 AM (This post was last modified: 07-14-2015, 09:13 AM by Killdare.)
He is thankful for the starless night. The earth damp and inviting at the touch of his skin, a cool respite from the summer's heat.The moon has been off hiding as well, a deep concealing darkness ensues. This does little to snuff out her glow, patches of dawn shining through what the ground had not marred. He wondered how long she lay there in disregard of her vanity, and what had driven her to do so. Her form felt broken beneath him, from no weight of his own, only that which she bore herself. He had noticed she slept very little, her sunlit pelt graced the nights oftentimes the whole night through.Though he doesn't ask, he never does.
For a time it is quiet, save for the chirping of insects. Their breaths align, a steady rise and fall, the sound is deafening to him. The closeness is foreign to him, for few times had he ever been embraced, let alone embrace another. His mother, he had shared this touch with her, though each more fleeting. He had half expected her to flinch, to start or flee, but she doesn't. Instead she presses a saffron dial into his chest, his heart hammers, he had not noticed before the sound of her own.
He feels her velveteen maw brush the tender skin of his vest before she speaks. He can not bear to look at her now, nor meet her gaze. Breath catching in his throat as she utters simply to 'stay'. Killdare is rooted to the ground, though his mind tells him to go, he fails to get the message to his limbs. A choking, burning sensation grasps his heart, and he speaks. One simple little word, "okay." His blackened lips find the space between her ears, resting on the root of her forelock, breathing heavy warm air into her skin.
The warmth was oh so welcoming, but it felt like slithers of my dream had captured me and pulled tight around my neck. I had dreamt momentarily clouds of this; not lying here with Killdare, no, that had been a slightly foolish ideal. Perhaps... perhaps indeed. But nestled close to the throes of his heart, and staying in the same position for what felt like hours, was just blossoming thoughts in my mind, bringing them to the surface.
I dream when awake, clouds of images, both from my past and what I guess is myriads of the future. Threads wrapped tightly together of my own, blissful thoughts. It is the sprout, the life that thumped deep within the earth of the Chamber, the promise of a beginning that is fresh, new. And on my midnight wanders, I see him often. His bay frame merged within the darkness, his viridian eyes guardian over the chamber. Almost like some girl, rapt, I watched him. Enthralled by the way he stalked the night, much like me. Loyal to none other than the chamber. Admirable and handsome. How could no one bear thoughts of Killdare?
I am sure this is a dream, throes of surreality blurring my insomniac eyes. My heart thuds, completely thawed, by his warmth, by his breath pooling my face alone. My skin aches, feverish and blistered with promise of sweat in the summer heat. Marred gold, merged with grass green and ash, terribly marked by the chamber dirt, so lovingly, so tenderly. Right now noting matters, I lay in his embrace and the deep sorrow in mightiest fades, the ache, the missing pieces are slowly knitting together, and that's when my eyes snap open.
An epiphany. I have had many in Beqanna. About life, about myself and now, now I understand what my mother had meant when she said that without her father, she was missing a piece. At birth you are empty, pieces fall into place with those you meet, places you see. Those that matter make iron welded pieces that stay prominent in your chest. My heart had been iced, frozen in place for years. Those pieces had been there, forgotten, ignored. Now, warmed thoroughly by his pulsing frame, his heartbeats merged with my own. I thought, that maybe what my mother had was right here. The steady thump of my heart and the quiver of butterflies in my stomach. Foolish yearling stuff, but stuff that plagued me nonetheless.
His one word meets my ears and they fold back into my crown, pressed further down as I slide my head deep into his chest, closer to the thump, thump of his heart. The confusion between dream and reality was blurring, my mother's voice clouding my judgement, I needed to hear his voice as much as feel his bay pelt against my gold.
'Killdare.' I say his name and it feels perfect upon my tongue. I pull my head, snake it out from the hidden hole of his chest and I lay my nose, pressed close against his withers, lost within the knots of his ebony mane. I lip tresses, pull with teeth, weave myself even closer to him. If this were a dream, I would have woken by now and he would be gone. But my gemstone eyes still filled with doubt, I looked over his body, making certain every inch of him was real, raw Killdare.
'This feels....' I say, chewing on my words, salmon tongue licking dry, course lips. 'this feels...' I stammer on, never one to fumble over words, it frustrates me and I instead nestle my nose beneath his mane, pressing my forehead into his neck, breathing in time with him. 'Nice.' the word slips from my lips, a quivering feather, unsure, uncertain where it may land. He could capture it, or blow it away. discard it or keep it close to his chest. 'This feels nice.'.
[If this is to end in fire
Then we should all burn together]
The moments seem to crawl past, if they are even moments at all. Time does not exist here, not anymore, only the steady intake and exhale of breath. Killdare is confused with his own actions, but he lingers there still, unmoving. If this were home he would like be paired with two or three females by now, with absolutely zero choice in the matter. Couplings made only to further the lines, to gain size, height, or whatever other atributes his father was seeking.
Wasn't the golden mare all of these things already? Funny how the world worked, he grunted, an offhanded realization. His own flesh pressed against hers, her fevered skin blazing warm to his. Her crown slipped further down his breast plate, until she spoke again, words melting like honey from her mouth. She says just the one word, his name, only his name. It felt like ice and fire in his veins, his insides burning and frozen all at the same time.
Her muzzle finds his mane, nibbling at him, and he does not protest. Killdare's sea glass eyes find the ones that search him, an uncertain gaze following over his entirety. All movement is robbed from him in those moments, even the ones that pull oxygen to his brain. Words fail her now, condescending to her nature, she mulls over them for too long. Golden temples again find his chest, pressing into his flesh she speaks, her feelings spilling out from an over filled cup.
His taught bodice loosens, breathing returns to him, and his eyes close to rest. A soft baritone finds its way past his ivories, becoming spoken word, "The nicest."He confirms, the words seem out of place, and odd sentence to come from a soldiers lips. It makes them no less true, and genuine. Bay visage dips, placing his muzzle against hers, sharing the air. He knew no greater sign of affection than this.
My mother was wrong, and I'd quite expect her right now to be rolling in her grave, china white skull grimacing. The thought plagues me with chills, but the warm smile that tainted my velvet lips, brought on by this embrace, this tender moment, was not as fleeting. My mother had said, quite possibly in the heat of the argument, after my hooves had been tainted with my father's blood, she had callously attacked me with words, and to a daughter, your mother's words were gospel, the very essence of being. Your mother told you she loved you, you did not question it. She told you that you would never find any happiness, so long that your on this earth, you have a tendency to believe it. Thus I did, wandering the lands before falling across Beqanna and meeting Straia. I had resigned myself to that thought, that my heart would not beat in time with another's. That my soul would spend an eternity unattached, lost and cold somewhere in my golden frame.
Ah, but she was wrong, is wrong. This feeling it burns in my chest, a raging inferno with fire-kissed fingers, plucking and pulling, forcing me to show my hand. Not many had seen my pain, my inner sorrow that had marred my bones and stripped me of my beauty. Not even my mother had seen my mask crack. No one ever had the privilege, the attention to even allow me to lower my defence. Oh, but he has. Killdare, my earthy prince, eyes as green as the moss that grew from the chamber floor. A face as rough and rugged as a diamond, unpolished and unearthed from the core of the earth. His muzzle nears mine and I feel each and every one of his breaths coil and intertwine with my own. Our lungs are in sync, our hearts matching the steady rhythm.
He said nothing about my missing facade; my tearstained face had cracked, and like the monuments of angels concealed in graveyard, away from prying eyes, I had silently wept. And he, he found me and did not judge. Instead, he is here, heart beating life, breath breathing intense fire into my skin, electrifying frozen bones and revitalising a deadened heart. Oh, it is a beautiful moment, and I swallow it with every breath. My mind engraving it within memory. I'm still sure this is but a dream, a fanciful thought that has flawed my senses. But I still quiver against his touch, my skin peppered with gooseflesh, every time his breath touches me, his muzzle pressed against my own. I stayed there, in the nightly silence, only our hearts matching Atrox's beneath, and even then, even then I did not notice the Chamber's stolen heart at all.
'A woman once told me that I would never have this.'
my voice is too fragile and innocent sounding to have slipped from my poisonous lips, it sounds foreign, garbled from my tongue. Sapphire gems blink, taking in his russet frame, every inch of his muscled body, ingrained in my mind. Just like the first time I'd met him. 'I had believed her once.' I agree, even now, that this was just some fancy idea that I was hallucinating. Perhaps those mushrooms I had ingested earlier had caused this ridiculous notion. And yet, with every blink he remains. Perhaps, perhaps this were real. These feelings, stark and prominent in my chest. The beating of my newly animated heart. 'She was wrong.' My tone is whisper-quiet, no longer the black magic woven poison, but instead the earnest beatings of my heart. Here I am, the tentative heart on my sleeve, my mask discarded on the floor. Killdare saw all of me then, every inch of my misgivings, every slither of my sorrow. And yet, yet he still was here. And I lay my nose against his cheek, breathing him in, softly, gently rubbing his jawline.
'Unless I am dreaming this.' the doubt comes then, a slippery shadow that threatens to burden this glorious feeling. But I shake my head, a crooked smile twisting upon my lips.'Ah, but I do not sleep, so that is a lie. This is real... isn't it?'
It is possibly one of the single most peaceful moments of existence for him. Certainly the most tame. The night filled with the steady call of crickets, and the rythym of beating hearts. This incident is nothing less of a shared vulnerability, a side both rarely allowed to break surface. An act of selflessness on both parts.
Her voice fills his ears, words of the past, advice poorly given. "Women are silly creatures." He grunted in return, his thoughts about that statement obviously disapproving. For such a smart girl, she sure did question her own self so many times. Who the woman was that had uttered such ill given advice, was not of consequence. He had never thought on it before, but in this moment her did. Women were such spiteful, malicious beings to each other.
He couldn't judge her for it though, he hadn't truly known where the doubts had begun. Perhaps something instilled in her as a small child, though kinder words still than those passed to the females in his birth herd. "Engel this is no dream." He says calmly, simply. His tone so matter of fact, not an ounce of doubt plays on his lips. "I am truly here," his maw lips at her golden neck, as if to solidify the fact. A steady trail tracing upwards into her frothy mane, pulling back as he neared her ears."Why do you weep? Are you injured?" His green gaze floats over her, searching her gilded skin for any sign of wounds. His tone is concrete and concerned, though his gaze is soft.
07-19-2015, 02:01 PM (This post was last modified: 07-19-2015, 02:03 PM by Engelsfors.)
Let's love like seventeen,
I'm in love with poisoning.
Only bring your pretty, frightful gifts to me.
Let's love and kill like seventeen now.
The weeping angels of the graveyard are covered in moss, forgotten in the shadows of a bent and bowed willow. Shadows line beneath their eyes and cracks form in their perfect alabaster face. This is me, willows exchanged for pines, and the shadows instead taint my golden frame all over. Even Killdare casts a shadow over me, a darkness, a welcoming swath of warmth that takes me to a whole different realm. Is that what sleep is? To be taken on the wings of nightmares and dropped off in a dazzling little dream? I swallow a breath that had began to sit rigid in my chest, moving like a fat stone to sit in the back of my throat. Achingly so.
His touch sends me along the knife edge; every little kiss of his muzzle against my golden flesh sends more gooseflesh along, the cold, the ice inside of me thaws more and more until I feel like I am a sodden puddle, even my heart flops like some dying fish before my feet. I widen my eyes, gilt lashes framing sapphire eyes, still gleaming with tears that remain unshed. I bury myself even closer. Instilling into me, his very heartbeat. I nestle my nose into the throes of his ebony mane, I taste him. The ash and the earth of the chamber, the pine and the bark that he guards so rigidly. Each muscle of him shifts and tightens beneath my touch and I feel that this moment could not possibly be real.
But then he speaks, his voice takes me back, grips me with his concrete voice, keeping me firmly in place. In the chamber, nestled in the darkest reaches of the pines, I am here, curled with Killdare. 'You're here.' I breathe and my throat feels closed, hoarse as thought the rough edge of the bark had been embedded deep within me, grating my tender flesh, throbbing my tongue. There is not doubt within him, and as I stare, eye to eye, soul to soul, I feel something, something unlike anything ever felt. It twangs like fine violin strings, falling out of tune, then gallops like raging hooves across stone. Oh, oh, that is my heart. It beats to a whole new tune, a whole new purpose. Through these raging heartbeats I whisper, 'Injured inside. My Heart, My Soul. I thought the Chamber had claimed them, taken them rightfully as it's own but now... now I am not sure.' I nest closer, like some lost bird finding comfort, solace in the arms of a rugged angel.
I swallow again, that lump is irritant at best. My lips curl, twisting into some sort of a graceful smile. I give up when it seems more grimace than delicacy. I turn my nose and touch his face, gliding my silken muzzle across his cheek, touching the hollows of his eyes before finding the nook of his chin, and there I nestle deeper. Finding the warmth of his pulse the most comfort. I breathe in time with him then and I whisper, lost, broken. 'She was wrong. I do have a heart, somewhere, somewhere inside it does beat and... and Killdare I...' I refuse then to meet his eyes, my own tightly knit shut. Even sightless I see him, his earthy body, muscled and toned. His face, chiselled like the gods had word in his making. But those emerald eyes were hers, those precious gemstones taking her. 'It beats for someone, someone other than the chamber, someone else...' My words fall like glass fragments, slippery and delicate, crushed beneath the string of emotion. It seems so strange, this dream-like reverie. And yet, here I am, still here, still wrapped in his warm embrace. 'You.' barely a whisper, barely even a word slips my tongue. He is so close to me, I'm sure he may hear if, even if it is lost in the pounding of my heart, or the caws of the ravens above. Slithers of me hope he had missed it, and I would not have to dare take rejection. Then, then it would become a nightmare and I would fall into the bottomless pits of Hell's fire, like I did every single time.
Let's love like seventeen,
I'm in love with your new screams.
Only bring those pretty, frightful gifts to me.
Let's love and kill like seventeen now.
Things were different now. Not simply in the regrowth of the pines, the charred bark becoming less and less the norm. It would soon be just a memory the way the ash fell around his feathers, or clung to his toasted hide. It wasn’t even the addition on ravens on high, not the simple sort. The ones that kissed flames upon the totems, without burning, that drove ice into the summer air. Things had changed, the Chamber still sunk deep within the beating organ of his chest. It held something else too now, love perhaps?
The golden female that had irritated him so upon their first meeting, had grown on him. Spinning her words through his stone filled ears, chiseling at the mineral. Yards of silken thread no longer tripped him up, but wound their tendrils around his bulk, swathing him in warmth. The gemstone eyes so flighty, so seemingly filled with herself, only reflected his own now. Funny how the world worked sometimes. He had tried so very hard to drive a wedge between them, to separate himself from her chattering. To leave behind any errant thought of what a family could be, might be. He had completely and utterly failed at that task, and it shook him somewhere deep. He was never one to accept defeat, nor admit it, but time has a way of changing all things.
He could picture her swollen barrel, housing one of his many children in her womb. Raising a family, in the Chamber of course, there was no other place he would have it. He wondered if the halls of pine had ever rang with the voices of children. He had not seen a single child since he had arrived, and he doubted Erebor ever partook in child-like games of chase. He is somewhat stoic as she professes her love to him. Choosing to not soil the moment, instead taking it all in, capturing it.
”I love you too.” The words are gone, fleeting, almost as soon as they are said. That’s the thing about words though, they are not something you take back.
