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    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "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


    [open]  firearms and alcohol
    #1
    Babadook
    “Get the fuck off me, worm!” Her words sting into his soft, childish mind and he flinches instinctively away from her. He knew what would come after her words. Quickly following the closing of her thin lips, her neck swings around to push him against the tree they were sheltering under. The rough bark scratches against his soft flanks, opening up more cuts and deepening more bruises along his skeletal body.

    A cry bleats from his lips at the pain that blossoms along his side (though there is the sob of a child in desire of love hidden among it as well). His mother pulls away from him, her ears pinning and her tail flicking dangerously. “God, I never should have slept with him.” He can hear her mumbling under her breath, but his stomach growls ferociously. All he wants is to eat from her supple tit — he can see and smell the nutritious milk beading at the tip — and he inches closer to her brooding side.

    “You little shit!” She’s screaming now. He scrambles away, smoky legs rushing to hide in the shadows before her teeth reach out to pinch his skin roughly. “Go find some friends to play with before I bash your head i” — her voice fades away as he runs, stumbling through the thick swathes of the forest they call home.

    He can feel the blood dripping down his shoulder and the bumpy scratches where the tree bit him feel as though a bee has stung him. He stops running when his long, gangly legs start to wobble. He’s still young, only a few months old, and yet he has been through more hell than most.

    His smoky silver body collapses to the ground in a heap and he chokes on a bubbling sob.
    #2
    Margaux wandered through the woods, stepping daintily through brush and fallen limbs. She had finally grown brave enough to leave the playground, you search for her mother. It had been months since she'd last seen her. In her young heart, she knew that something must have happened to her. There was no other explanation for why the mare would just... vanish. None that Margaux was willing to accept, that was. And so she walked, everyday. Searching for some clue or hint to her mama's whereabouts. 
    The fjord filly was almost a year old now, and still tiny. Like a pale red fairy, she made her way, hoping today would be the day. A not-far shout gave her pause. The words were incomprehensible, but the tone was unmistakably livid. Delicate ears tipping backward, she poised herself to spin and run should an attacker appear, choosing to hide behind an obliging bush. She was surprised then, when instead of a vicious assailant, a small, fragile-looking colt came her way instead. He was scrawny and dark colored, and making pitiful sounds as he fell the the earth. She could count every rib on his trembling sides, and noted the fresh scrapes that were weeping droplets of blood there. A truly pathetic sight. 
    Margaux's gentle heart was pricked. He looked about as tall as her, but quite a bit younger. Too young to be as used up as he appeared. Really, she couldn't just leave the poor thing lying there to die. If he had a mother, she must not care about him a wit, to let him be so sad. 
    She mustered her courage, and after peering about to see if anyone else was near, took a couple steps forward until she stood close to the sobbing baby. Bending her short legs until she kneeled at his shaking side, she gently brushed his neck with her satin nose. Tears gathered in her own eyes, as she took in the battered child. His soft hide was already peppered with scars and wounds that would become scars. He was even thinner up close, it was a wonder he was alive at all. "Hey, hey, it'll be okay baby. What's wrong?" She asked him, voice soft and sweet. She was little more than a baby herself, but she already felt responsible for him. She was growing into the kind of girl who would love anything that needed it. If it had a pulse, she wanted to protect it. 
     "Hey, c'mon. I bet if you cheer up a bit and come with me, we can find you something to eat." She coaxed, eyeing his thin flanks.  The girl waited by his side, holding her breath. She hoped she didn't scare him too bad.
    #3
    Babadook
    His whole body aches. It’s all he’s aware of, at the moment. He’s still a child and so he clings to the physicality of his situation, as children often do. A headache brings them screaming the day away, a bee sting has them running from flying bugs for the next week, tripping over a log influences them to limp overdramatically for the next two days.

    His stomach is growling for food, his bruises throb with a dull pain, his lungs feel sharp and small from heaving air, his cuts are biting and tender, his muscles are sore and tight from running.

    The spring grasses are watered by Babadook’s tears. He is lost in the storm of his emotions and pain when her voice startles him. It’s a soft, sweet sound — a drastic shift from his mother’s biting words — and it soothes his anxious mind. The skeletal boy looks up through swollen eyes to see the pretty red girl standing above him. She extends her nose to touch him and he scrambles to his feet, gasping in mingled terror and fatigue.

    Although his mother touched him without violence at times, his nervous brain is in the frame of mind that he will be hurt by whomever touches him.

    He stands in an awkward position, weak legs spread wide to balance his heaving, sweating, bleeding body. She offers to help him find something to eat and his dainty ears prick forward. “Food?” His voice is light, unsure. His mother’s told him about strangers — mainly the strangers that aim to steal him away into the unfathomless night — and he remembers her words now as the filly looks at him.

    Babadook knows where he’ll find Mother after he gets food. He also knows that Mother will not feed him until much later.

    He’s hungry now.

    “I’ll go with you.” He manages a weak, tender smile. “I’m Babadook.”


    @[Margaux]
    #4
    Sweet brown eyes watched silently as the scrawny colt leaped away from her touch, cowering in anticipation of more pain. She stood back and let him recover, watched as he realized there was no blows coming. She was patient, like she had been with the abandoned fox cubs, and the baby mice she had secreted away in a knoll back at her temporary home.  She was a young, innocent thing, and had a soft spot for things smaller than herself. It was a short list for a self assigned task, but one she took to with a child's passion. Really, she was mostly finding things to do until mama came back. And the trembling boy in front of her seemed like he needed her as much as any fox, or mouse ever could. 
    Her mention of food seemed to get his attention more than anything else has. No wonder, for all that he's made up of skin and bones. She nods her pixie's head sagely, slightly concerned in the back of her mind of just how she would find food for such a little one. Perhaps, and she was banking on this, there would be another mare with a little one where they were going. Someone generous enough to share. 
    She smiles brightly when he agrees to come with her. With a girlish giggle, she aims a sisterly kiss for his dark nose. "Hello Ba-ba-dook!" She whinnied, turning the poor boy's cumbersome name into a fragment of song. "I'm Margaux. It means daisy!" She shared enthusiastically. Now that the skittish colt seemed to be alright with her, she set about introducing herself in a non-stop stream of cheery chatter. "We're going to the playground! You'll really like it there, it's a lot of fun! There's all kinds of stuff to jump off of and over and run around. And the fairies are really nice, they keep us safe from mean people, and wolves." She commented with a solemn expression, finally taking a breath. It melted away a moment later as she continued her monologue. "Oh, you just have to meet Whiskers and Tobi! They're my mice, they're really cute. I saved them from a hawk and now they're really tame. I let them ride in my mane." She paused thoughtfully. "I guess, if you want, you can play with them, for a bit." She decided with all the magnanimity of a tiny queen. This kind of chirping talk continued as they walked the short distance through the trees, towards the playground where the little red filly had been staying. She was so excited to have someone to play with!

    @[Babadook]
    #5
    Babadook
    There is gravity in respect. Although Babadook doesn’t recognize it now, he will later see the way she backs away politely as respect (and he will come to cherish it). He can see the gentleness in her eyes and it’s a foreign thing. It almost scares him, but it is less frightening than the raging mother he knows is behind his shoulder. So he moves toward her timidly.

    Her kiss is soft and painless. Mother would infrequently place a nuzzle between his thin ears when they would settle down for the evenings, but that did not hold even an inch of the love that was put into the filly’s touch. Babadook feels his heart warm at the sensation. Then she’s singing his name and he wonders if he’s finally died from his various injuries (bruises and cuts and scars) and she is his angel.

    Margaux.

    It’s the only thing he’s able to comprehend as she babbles on about the playground and faeries and Whiskers and Tobi and hawks. His dark eyes blink slowly, trying to clear the fog from his mind. He wants to cry, all of the sudden, but being in front of an older, pretty girl gives him enough steel to blink the tears away. He follows her closely, sticking to the rose of her side so tightly she might fall over if she stops walking.

    Babadook likes the way he can hear the echo of her optimistic words in the hollow of her chest.

    They eventually reach a wide expanse of land with many, many children scattered around. Panic begins to blossom in the depths of Babadook’s lungs and he sucks in a few quick, short breaths. He’s never seen so many children before and their dainty, growing bodies are not puckered with the raised scarring or scabby cuts or multicolored bruises like his own. He’s hyperaware of the severity of his thinness (though the poke of his ribs and cut of his hips and harsh angularity of his cheekbones will stay with him forever).

    “What’s this?” His voice is quiet.


    @[Margaux]




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