"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
Change. It was ever present in Beqanna. She was a woman of enigmatic and ever flowing presence. You never knew what she had up her sleeve, what was lurking about in her ribbed heart. She had been kind, for oh so long. She had nurtured and nourished, she had lovingly granted children to parents, she had rebuilt the earth when it had split apart. She had created entities to each of her lands, magical things that thrummed with the love of the land. And now? Now, it was gone. Now everything was gone.
It is morning. There is a light snow that filters through the thick pines of the Valley. There is quiet, just the sound of Eight’s own breathing, the caw of a distant bird, and the low bay of a wolf in the distance.
And then – there is everything.
There is the gut wrenching sound of the land tearing apart, the trees torn asunder from their white thicketed ground, the high crawling cries of the Valley inhabitants. There is chaos, a cacophony of sound, and a shattering of land.
And then – there is nothing.
There is a space of time, a floating freedom, ticking of the seconds, as the world swirls by in a blur. There is simply the rush of air, a sound that thunders in Eight’s ears – neither threatening nor meek. There is no Valley, no wolves at his heels, no snow dusting his skin – he is just there.
And then – there is the Mountain.
He appears standing at the apex of the land, and it is a sight to behold. It is each and every bit of Beqanna tied tightly together. Was this home, now? Was this finally what She wanted? What Beqanna ached for – solidarity, a land so complete that it encompassed all that the horses of Beqanna had known? He could not see the pines of the Valley in the distance, or the ever flowing sea of Desert, or even the humid Jungle. It was barren, bare – much shrouded in mist and unknowing.
It was something new. And Eight was no stranger to the changes She had given them throughout the years – and there were many. And each time She changed, each time the clock had turned and things began a new, Eight was there to see them. This time, it was no different. This time, he too, would start from the beginning. He would do as he always did, and find out what had happening again.
And so he began to descend to the only place that had always been there for him, through each disappearing act, each new time She created, each time he had fled – the Meadow was always there.
The trek was long, the air was thin, and by the time he made it to flat land- picking his way and using the ever familiar scent of the Meadow – he was tired. The Meadow, however, was barren, desolate (although, he didn’t quite mind) – perhaps the others were just waking up now too. And so he stood quietly, sipping from the cool and quenching stream.
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in
She is standing in the Valley, the night air is bathing her skin, and then - and then-
She knows this. She's felt it before. She might have even been standing right here when it happened last. She knows the way that the ground heaves, the way it splits and spits like some great beast of burden trying desperately to unseat its rider. She's been through this before, so many years ago when she was barely more than a filly, barely anything.
Back then, she had been nothing before the ground shook, and had become so much more.
But now, she feels it in reverse. She feels everything she's been, everything she's become, draining away from her. It bleeds out of her skin and leaves only cold, only nothing in its wake. It's been her constant companion for years, for lifetimes and now it's nothing. It starts at the tips of her hooves, and although she retains her youthful experience, she can feel the difference. And by the time it reaches her eyes, stealing the mutating, shifting colors that have always been there, she is breathless. She doesn't cry, perhaps she cannot cry, but she feels the loss powerfully.
And just as it begins, it's over. But not just for her – she's not an untutored child now, to think that this is only her. She knows it's all of them. And as she consults her new surroundings, she knows that things have shifted mightily, for all of them. The new place is beautiful, rolling out before her in a series of hills and streams. It is almost idyllic. And as she watches, she feels a strange sensation – everything that had been drained flowing back in, suddenly and unexpectedly. And now the reason for the idyllic setting becomes clear: this is the place where the "old Beqanna" still flows. This is the font of the magic, the heart of things once gained and once lost. Here in this place, her powers will still exist. But they can't live here, not anymore – she knows that as clearly as she knows her own name. And out in the world, out where they'll be living, her magic will be as gone as it was when the earth started to shift and heave.
The silence is deafening, and she takes a moment to wonder whether she'd be among the first to arrive here. But just then, a flash, a glimpse of dark bay catches her eye and twists her mouth into a smile. She'd been looking for him before this had happened – or really, she'd been waiting for him to look for her, and just making the process a little simpler by bringing herself to the Valley.
Really, she's nothing if not helpful.
And so she decides to make herself helpful once more, to approach him, to find him, and to see what he's making of the re-making that they've all experienced.
Y'know, that, and they may have a touch of unfinished business.
She approaches him and her appearance is not augmented by magic for the first time in more years than most horses have lived. She is still beautiful – oh, has she ever not been beautiful? – but now her eyes are brown, not their ever-shifting riot of shades. It's a beautiful hazel, laced through with gold and rich honey, but it's a common color nonetheless. And as she walks toward him, she feels the wind across the bare expanse of cheek where once Eight's diamonds had adorned her. Something like sadness, like loss flits across her heart, but she shoves it down. They have enough to deal with, all of them, and perhaps more than most. Especially the two of them, such consummate magicians. It will be a change to lose it, she knows, when they've shaped themselves and the world with their powers before. But there was a time long ago when she had her wits and nothing else, and surely she'll survive. Surely they'll survive.
Surely.
She does not touch him, although she stops close enough that she easily could. She exhales, standing next to him as he drinks, surveying the land more than she surveys him. At length, her gaze sweeps back down and she regards him. The smallest of smiles plays on her lips. "Hello, Eight."
We are bleeding and we are destroyed and what we once we, we are no longer. We are not magicians, we are not gods above them all, we have nothing – we are nothing. The land crawled up and devoured itself, the Valley shattered into splinters of pine and slate and the call of wolves. It is sudden, a rift in time – a heave of magic from Beqanna, a warning and a reckoning. One moment – we are there. We are living and breathing and cavorting about the lands braying ‘I am king!’, smirking ‘I can control the elements!’, laughing ‘I can shift into whatever pleases me!’. We were all selfish, and now we are nothing.
It is a strange feeling – being everything and turning into nothing. The magic through his veins dissipates like the thin air of the mountain. His horn slides deftly into his skull with a searing crunch. His wings though – those stay, a gift from Beqanna, a reminder of what he once was. Once? Or still is? If you take something from someone, are they still themselves? Was Eight made up of magic? Or did he make the magic? Are you still a magician once your magic is gone? Is it still laying there dormant and waiting to rise it’s head from the muck of your blood?
There were so many – too many – questions to ask.
There is silence after – as if they were caught in a snow globe. Silence and an unsettling mist flocking over the land. Eight was one of the first to begin the trek down the mountain – for he felt the forboding feeling that this was it, that things were new. The loss and stretch of his magic during the tumult, and then feeling it flow again through his veins was a feeling he would not soon forget. This time, though, as he picked his way down the mountain into familiar land, it was different. He felt the slow ebb of his magic with each step, and he knew what he thought in his heart was true – he would be as simple as everyone else down here in the real world. There would be no magicians, no elemental powers, no shape shifting equines – there would be nothing save for what there was in the beginning.
The meadow is barren, a winter wasteland of biting sharp wind, powdery flakes careening from the sky. My, my, what a time to choose to reckon with Beqanna. He is alone – and it feeling is ideal. A moment to mourn what once was, what they once had. His eyes are closed – breathing in deeply the new world they would come to mold. And then – He hears the soft crunch of snow beneath hoof, and opens his eyes – and there you are.
How long had it been? Years. Decades.
You would think his heart would lurch into his throat – his mind race with the countless hours of banter and magic intertwining and the jests and smirks and furtive touches. But no – instead, he is calm. It is a washing of wave after wave over his conscious – it is someone just like (yet so different from) him.
You are not cloaked in a swirling façade of magic – there is no play on your features, no mercurial eye color, no adornments or tricks up your sleeve. It is you in your purest form – something Eight had rarely seen. Even when you lay naked before him, there were always the marks of your lover the Desert – there was always the diamonds laid like a mountain ridge across your cheek. A small smile flutters to his face – an unmistakable memory of their drawn out times in their cave, of their childs play magic, of the universe they created all on their own. “Hello Camrynn.” He shifts his weight slightly, bumping his hip to yours in a very uncharacteristic act of playfulness. Strange, how losing something can open you up so much more differently.
Loss- is that what it is? Was Eight truly so bereft to lose the magic that pondered through him? No, perhaps not. He was so long characterized by it – the magician king, playing with dark magic, the guardian who could wield power in the blink of an eye. It is almost a relief to be able to just be. “Fancy seeing you here. I thought you had left us for good.”
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in
