"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
well, the good ol' days may not return, and the rocks might melt, and the sea may burn.
Autumn had arrived, with the morning touched with gentle beads of icy dew, and the evenings growing more and more frigid with each passing day. Long gone was the warm embrace of summer, with its brutal sunlight and still, humid air. The long, winding branches of the old, tired oak trees were slowly becoming bare as their drying, brittle leaves tore away from the stems that had once nourished them, leaving them to drift away within the gentle, brisk breeze. The sun no longer lingered far beyond its welcome, instead falling behind the vivid horizon earlier and earlier with each passing day, draping the once bright sky in a cloak of glittering darkness.
He finally draws away from the shadows of a looming branch, no longer needing the soothing caress of its shadow, his eyes glued to the blanket of stars that loom overhead. The grandeur of the sky had always enthralled him. The drifting, blossoming clouds. The way the sun would rise and set in the sky, painting it in various hues of cobalt, indigo, magenta and tangerine along its journey. The sky is where he felt he belonged most, with the wind beneath his wings and the brim of an endless sky just beyond his reach. Nothing had ever come close.
A wistful sigh emerges from his parted, whiskered lips, his bright hazel eyes peering off into the distance at nothing in particular. The soft, subtle chirping of crickets reminds him that the long, hot nights are in the not so distant past, and the rustling of dying foliage only serves to soothe his restless soul. He had not been home in many nights - he had grown tired of the molten, pooling magma, and the thick, hot air - not to mention the dusting of volcanic ash that always seemed to find a way to weave its way into his dark feathers. As time went on, and as he grew older, his heart and mind grew wanton for something unknown. Something he could not describe; something more.
Alas, he had yet to find it.
He wondered if he ever would.
Pathetic, he chided himself with a low chuckle, the muscles beneath his golden skin rolling and moving smoothly with each lazy stride forward. Boredom could do miraculous things to a discontented mind.
More than half of the day had already been spent by the time Circinae found herself creeping past the edges of the woods. This forest, unlike her own, is forbearing to the undergrowth that seems to want to cling to her every step. The straight, robust, cherry-colored trees of her new home are not so kind. Where light splashes in discordant patterns against her two-toned skin here, only a filtered rendition would drift earthwards in the heart of Taiga, covering her and the others in a haze of dreamy light. She realizes, as she inches through the sea of grass, that she cannot hide here so easily. “Safety is only an illusion.” She reminds herself. Best to not forget that.
It’s Autumn in the outside world - or, the beginning of it. The change in Nature’s wardrobe doesn’t necessarily bring her elation, like it might bring to other mares, only serves as a recollection that time is ever marching onward. She wonders, bright blue eyes dancing from one lingering body to the next, if this is what draws curious eyes to where she lingers. Is it her inability to seem so outwardly cheery like the rest? Does the lack of a confident smile single her out? Can they sense (in that strange way that most true prey can) that she isn’t wholly … equine?
Desperate for some sense of normalcy her wandering gaze eventually falls on the likes of a tawny stallion, taller than herself but upon closer inspection relatively similar in age. She hasn’t got much time to choose, as he’s already begun to distance himself from where she’s loitering, but she won’t let the opportunity slip from her grasp. He’s without company and so is she - perfect conditions. Well … suitable conditions. “Wait!” She calls out to him with a high voice. Circinae’s green limbs move on their own accord then, lifting her into a trot that has her gliding across the carpeted surface of the Meadow. It’s only when she’s close enough to see the distinct layering of fine, strong wings crossed over his back that she slows again to a stop. “You weren’t going to leave without saying hello, were you?” She asks, feigning a bruised ego.
Circinae
I need the crack of a whip, I need some blood in the cut
well, the good ol' days may not return, and the rocks might melt, and the sea may burn.
Within the tightly bound confines of his chest, his heart pounds slowly and steadily, rhythmic in the way it surges the blood through his veins. The hollow sound echoes, but he is too preoccupied by the wistful thoughts that carries him away, to distant places, and once forgotten memories.
He can almost taste the salt and brine in the air from the first moment he had set eyes on the sea, with its immense depth, and impossibly tempting allure – its soothing, surging waves lapping gently at the shore. He can still feel the hot, forbidden sun, warming the hollowed bones of his wings as they stretch out across the bright, vivid blue sky. His hazel eyes search the starlit night, tracing various patterns in the seascape of his mind, lost to his own recollection of moments long since passed.
Suddenly, he is torn away from his reverie, his bright eyes blinking away the bleary trance he had fallen prey to as a high-pitched tone carries through the thick, warm air. His muscle laden neck twists, turning his broad cheek towards the intriguing sound. Wait! - and so he does, his long legs growing still, blending seamlessly with the dried, swaying grasses that caress the length of his limbs with each waft of tepid air. A pillar of femininity and grace, the young female is brought closer to him by her own slender, but sharply defined legs, and his gaze follows along their elegant ridges and lines, across her broad chest and shapely neck.
Her skin is as vibrant and as rich as the emerald pine needles that bind together, tightly knit along wiry branches, stark against the moonlit horizon – and her tresses, carefree and tangled against the nape of her neck, are as dark and as opulent as the midnight sky. She is unusual, yet captivating (and admittedly, there is something about her that stirs an uncomfortable uneasiness within him, but he cannot discern what). With his interest piqued, the smooth muscles beneath his own golden skin ripple beneath as he revolves around, his broad russet wings still tucked against his sides. A carefree, easy smile tugs at the corners of his whiskered lips, the ridges of his brow furrowed in amusement at her lighthearted banter.
”No, of course not,” he says, his voice rough from disuse, a rugged chuckle grating along his vocal cords as she feigns discontent. ”that would be rude, wouldn’t it? Hello. My name is Canaan. And you are?”
He smells of things that Circinae cannot name. Things like freedom, and something along the lines of crisp. It washes over her as he pivots, the breeze set into motion from his actions displacing the few, fine blue hairs that trickle over her glittering eyes. She finds it interesting that even in these tight quarters, he knows his own body shape well enough to keep his tightly folded wings from ever brushing against her. How … polite. But her gaze is discovering him now, much the same way that he’d let his own intuition take hold with her when she first approached, and she finds nothing lacking in those wispy, upturned lips; nothing alarming in the quirk of his brow or the hint of laughter in his stare.
This is a rare encounter for her, after living burrowed so deeply in fear. “Oh, yes,” She agrees, “very rude.” It escapes then - the chuckle she’s been building up - spilling over her lips and warming the atmosphere around them as the stars strengthen their nightly glow. “But you’re here now, so I can forgive you …I think.” She reasons, head tilting softly while she contemplates the action of letting this proverbial stranger off the hook. “Canaan, nice to meet you. I’m Circinae, but of course you can call me Circy. That tends to be easier for everyone to remember.” She tells him finally, straightening out once more while the blush of a smile haunts her.
“Really, now … “ She chides herself, schooling her face with the flick of her darkening tail. It was nighttime, the air was heady with the remnants of daytime heat, and Circinae was losing her wits to a handsome face. Suddenly aware of her inept ability to continue their easy banter, the green girls flickering gaze turns to the heavens, avoiding Canaan’s line of sight until she could compose herself accordingly. “Where were you headed, this late and so alone?” She muses to him, knowing all too well that the twin appendages on his back were certainly more than a pair of pretty wings. She wonders then how they might’ve looked, if she hadn’t stopped him, with their shadowy-rust color expanding from his sides to lift him skywards and take him home, no doubt to where someone else was waiting for him.
Circinae
I need the crack of a whip, I need some blood in the cut
well, the good ol' days may not return, and the rocks might melt, and the sea may burn.
The warmth of her breath does not go unnoticed on the hardened line of his jawline, the proximity of her presence almost intoxicating – a long, drawn out sigh emerges from his tired lungs; a breath he had not realized he’d been holding. His deep hazel eyes search her own for a long moment, though she is preoccupied, her pupils tracing each defined line of sinewy muscle and resilient bone on his body. The faint uptick of a smile mere moments ago changed, quirked to one side as it becomes a lopsided smirk, his skull tilting slightly to the left to catch her gaze in his own. ”Do you like what you see?” he teases, humor lacing itself around each spoken syllable. ”My eyes are up here, you know.”
There is something hidden away within her icy stare; a wild, feral thing, reaching out to him, calling out to him. He cannot bring himself to look away, and it causes his heart to thump roughly against the iron of his rib cage - and though he has no way of knowing, he is as captivated as prey beneath the scrutinizing gaze of a predator. The gentle breeze tangles itself between the wayward locks of hair strewn across the slender length of her neck, the scent of heat, of sweat, of summer rain enveloping him. Her laughter reverberates in the thick covering of nightfall, lingering long after it died from her whiskered lips, though it provokes another low chuckle from him in turn – contagious, and impossible to ignore.
”Circinae,” he echoes, amusement lining the flecks of gold as his eyes observe the faintest uptick of a smile across her soft features. ”something tells me there is nothing forgettable about you.”
Soon, her attention is turned towards the sky, and he cannot keep himself from doing the same. Above, a starlit sky – with gleaming, glowing lights peppered across the wide expanse, the hollow bones of his wings aching to stretch out beneath their splendor. There is very little of him that relishes the feel of the ground sinking beneath his weight, or the sensation of lush greenery lapping softly against his hock. The sky is where he is more at ease, bathing beneath the glowing moonlight, or soaring above where the naked eye can see. A low, wistful grunt rumbles from the depths of his throat, but it is not long before he is drawn to her again, her voice pulling him away from his trance.
”Anywhere and nowhere,” he says with a warm, uneven smile. ”wherever the wind takes me. I don’t know, honestly. I wander. What about you? What has you lurking in the night?”
Circinae doesn’t know the air. She’s a creature of the earth, meant to slink and hunt, howl at the moon. It’s never occurred to her what the sensation of flying might be like. Loud? Perhaps a bit terrifying, at first. The thought tugs a smile out of her; nothing tended to frighten her these days. She ignores his easy banter, knowing that if he hadn’t appreciated the elongated stare, he would’ve certainly been less receptive to it. But his mention of her being unforgettable catches her off-guard, bright blue eyes snapping back to where he stands, head risen like hers. She’d never been called that before.
He grunts, softly, the sound a mixture of longing and appreciation. It’s a sound she’s very familiar with, having uttered it herself so many times before this one. In his throat, though, it’s much more pleasant than she imagined. One slender ear tips sideways, gaze finally moving away from him to the now empty expanse of the meadow. “I wander.” He tells her, something pleasing that she can also relate to. Odd that they should unknowingly have so much in common. As if she were supposed to run into him.
“Me?” She starts, “I’m out hunting for lonely, single wanderers like yourself.” Her navy tail twitches softly, but her face remains placid, smooth. “I’m a cold-blooded killer, disguised as an innocent little mare.” She quips, grin spreading across her face now. It was as close to the truth as she could muster, enough so that Canaan could brush her off with a laugh, yet still far enough away from a bullseye that could reveal her entirely. “Have you found anywhere fantastic, in your travels?” She questions, neck curving so that she can view him again properly as the nerves wash off. “I like to ‘collect’ hidden places.” She tells him, “I used to wander too.”
Circinae
I need the crack of a whip, I need some blood in the cut
well, the good ol' days may not return, and the rocks might melt, and the sea may burn.
Gently, the air begins to move, rolling and shifting around him – long stems of dried brush caress the length of his legs, swaying to and fro as a gust of wind begins to stir. Adrenaline courses through his veins, weaving its way through his intricate nervous system, eliciting a prickling sensation on the surface of his nerves. As his heart pounds harder within the tight confines of his chest, the air surges, pressing against each of them and winding its way around their bodies, causing his shoulder to brush against her own. The closely-knit feathers that line the hollow bones of his wings waver beneath the pressure, ruffling and bristling as the atmosphere convulses around them.
Little did she realize that it was all his own doing – a closely kept secret, one that few knew or understood about him – the power to wield the atmosphere occupying the otherwise vacant space between the soil and the stars. Though he still understood very little of it, it had already become a part of him, interlacing itself within the very carbon fiber of his soul. The air, the wind, the sky - it was all intricately woven into him, as much a part of him as the marrow of his bones or the muscle that lay beneath his skin.
A low, rumbling chuckle reverberates from somewhere in his chest, carried to her ear by the soft wafting breeze. He is hardly aware of the effect of his own words – merely banter, as easy and as free flowing as the quiet, trickling creek traversing its way through the plain. Yet, he cannot draw his own gaze away from hers, observing the way the pupils narrow and change with each uttered sentence, and suddenly he is overtly aware of himself in a way he cannot describe. The breeze changes again, becoming a heavy gust, stirring the otherwise placid summer air and soothing the warmth of his skin, which had suddenly become unbearable.
”Oh no, whatever will I do?” he muses, with a smirk tugging at the corner of his dark, painted lips. ”I should have known such a pretty face would be the end of me.” The carefree grin that follows is lopsided, laughter bubbling within his throat. ”All joking aside,” he pauses, the golden flecks within his hazel eyes boring into her own, studying the icy surface. ”I have found a secret or two.” He pauses, dwelling on the cavern system tucked away behind dense thickets at the base of the mountain, or the waterfall hidden away within the depths of the forest. ”You used to wander? Tell me, Circy,” the name is as smooth as a river stone against his tongue. ”what has finally kept you rooted?”
Somewhere in the distance a low, hovering note escapes from the black mass of the forest and Circinae can feel her heart stumble. The sky is riddled now with stars, their luminescence only eclipsed by the swiftly rising autumn moon. A breeze, subtle at first, stirs the grassland around them and plays gently with her hair, rippling it into undulating waves of inky blue silk. She feels heavy, but the wind wants nothing of her resistance - so she gives in. It’s easier not to question why the air seems to wrap itself tenderly around her; simpler not to debate the oddities of nature on a cloudless night. Instead, they mingle together for a moment, enjoying the sensation of privacy and the stealth of the dark. She admits to herself that perhaps she isn’t as strong as she thought she was.
She can’t even keep her lips from trailing along the surface of his nearest wing. “Bad girl.” She chides, but she’s not fooling anyone. Through her eyes, the golden stallion is becoming more tangible, like the outline of something that one must trace to see the final image. Each word or laugh, even the pressure of his stare, connects one point to the next and the jade mare feels a sharp hunger to see them all, to have the constellation that is Canaan lit and bright before her. But these are gifts not easily given, and what she wants is no small order. So, Circinae lets his sharp wit dull her into a sense of ease and quietly thanks the heavens for aligning their paths so conveniently.
He’s not someone she’ll soon forget. “I lost someone, a long time ago.” She tells him quietly, blue eyes sinking into his own inquisitive stare, “Now that I’ve found a home, I’d rather not lose anyone again.” A simple reply for a complicated question, but still the truth. She feels sadness then, losing herself to someone who seems to never want to land. Birds of the air are never meant to be caged. “I still enjoy my freedom though, don’t mistake me.” She smiles, “If I had a set of my own, -” she begins, gaze darting to his wings, “- I’d be begging you to reveal your secrets.”
But she doesn’t, and she never will. As far as she’s concerned, she’ll never be gifted with quick travel. Only stamina for long journeys and four legs at all times. The realization of this stings, only slightly, because for once it would be nice to have a traveling companion again. When this night was over and Canaan finally unfurled his soft, brilliant wings to take him away from her, Circinae knew he might never return. This is why she eases into him, the broad of her nose meeting the flat edge of his shoulder before she runs it along his golden, taught skin. Green and lustrous, flaxen gold. She thinks they mix well. “You’ll take me to your hidden places sometime, won’t you?” She begs softly.
It’s always fun to pretend.
Circinae
I need the crack of a whip, I need some blood in the cut
well, the good ol' days may not return, and the rocks might melt, and the sea may burn.
Her breath hovers along the feathered bone of his wing, just before her parted lips travel along its length, tasting the remnants of sunlight from the dark feathers. The golden flecks of his hazel eyes glimmer beneath the pale moonlight, the pupils tucked within following the gentle curve of her cheek and the unkempt midnight tresses that lay across her temple. His heart is light, its rhythmic beating echoing inside of his chest, and it reminds him of soaring along the coastline, of tasting the salty ocean breeze, of feeling the revitalizing caress of precipitation in the air. The pallid line of his blunt teeth is drawn back with another lazy grin, and the tension lingering in the atmosphere is palpable – there is nothing but the sound of their soft breaths, and the gentle rustling of dry, brittle leaves wavering overhead to envelope them.
Again, a gust of wind urges against the solidity of their bodies, though in a wholly unnatural way – rather than surging in a single direction, it envelopes them from each side, pressing them together. His lopsided smile becomes a wry smirk, amused at his own cleverness. For a long moment, time seemingly stands still – captured in the vivid light of her icy stare and encapsulated in the way her words are carried in the warm, humid air. Her explanation causes his smile to soon falter, though he is still transfixed on her, studying the way the darkened line of her lips part and form each word of her vague response. She is an enigma; an intricate puzzle in which to piece together – and undeniably, he wonders what it would be like to see completion.
Quietly, ”I am sorry you have had to lose anyone at all.” He watches as the light in her eyes seems to flicker and grow faint; the glee and mischievousness fading away. A once forgotten memory seems to befall her then, taking her away from the moment, though he himself clutches it close, tilting the broadness of his cheek to pull her vision to him again. "Though I may be the one with wings, you seem freer than I, Circinae." The preened feathers that line the hollow bones of his wings bristle beneath her stare, longing to stretch out, yearning for exposure. Soon, the flattened bridge of her nose presses against his muscled shoulder, and he, too, observes the stark, complementary contrast of their colors, blending together smoothly beneath the silvery light of the moon.
”Anytime,” he murmurs, his voice lowering just above a whisper, his dark lips brushing against her neck. There is something dangerous here, something he does not understand – an instinct he cannot ignore, but he brushes it to the side, quieting it within his mind. ”I could take you now. I think you would like what you see.”
It’s been too long since she’s enjoyed simple pleasures. There was a time (before her little red girl) when she might’ve taken him up on the irresistible offer, turned her face to the moon and stars and never looked back. These days though, turning her face to the moon takes on a whole new meaning, one she’s not sure Canaan may understand. The path she trod wasn’t easily traversed, not to mention that it had already cost her dearly. Feeling him pressed against her only serves as a reminder that she’d prefer not to lose this … feeling again. Being alone had been so very, very terrible.
It’s why she’s suddenly so aware that his eyes are trained on her lips, her jaw, her skin - and she won’t deny that she likes it. Was it so wrong to feel so … right? There are only so many hours she can enjoy, and these few are some of the most wonderful she’s had. There’s the gentle movement of his mouth against her neck, a soft tingling that coils in the pit of her stomach, then the reply of, “Don’t be sorry for me.” It had been her choice, after all. “And freedom alway comes with a price.” She sighs, feeling the weight of a thousand years she hasn’t lived.
There’s an open patch of golden skin right between his unusual wings, just large enough to allow her slender muzzle access, so she scratches it casually for him while her mind prepares itself for what her heart is advising against. Another brief moment of silence envelopes them, one where only the wind murmurs over the blades of grass, and then she understands that she can’t postpone the inevitable any further. “And use up all of my excuses to spend time with you in one night?” She toys, “I think not.” Her smile can be felt now, there was no need for him to see it. “I’ll find you, soon enough.” She promises, the pressure of her nose against him suddenly turning cold and wet while she captures his scent.
“And then you can make good on your offer.” She ends, kissing him as faintly as the breeze that causes her to shiver. The two-toned mare won’t say anymore - she can’t, for fear she might change her mind - so she breaks away and leaves him nearly as suddenly as she had come.
It’s only when she reaches the forest that she turns to look back, shaggy brown head pointed to the sky in hopes to see him in glorious ascent. It was more magnificent than she could’ve ever imagined.
Circinae
I need the crack of a whip, I need some blood in the cut
