"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
He hadn’t yet left the forest. Even despite the minor disruptions to his solitude, he still couldn’t find the motivation to break free of the thick foliage. He found it peaceful there among the trees and bushes. Oblivious to the rest of the world he suspected that he would be content to remain there longer than he probably should.
There were tales of forest, dark places that, once entered could not be escaped. It wasn’t hard to picture horses losing themselves within the maze of trees, deer paths and brush. Even so, to him being swallowed by the forest seemed like the best way imaginable to fade into oblivion.
Quietly he plodded along, the soft treading of his massive hooves barely disturbing the gentle heartbeat of the forest. He’d lost track of the time he’d spent tucked away amongst the thick trees. It was freeing to be able to forget himself – to not have to hide himself from the prying eyes of others. It was too easy to escape their questions and their curious stares. Although he knew they meant well their stares always jolted him back to the horror of his past.
There were pieces of him that would never be open for discussion, places he never wanted to revisit and memories that were better left buried. Besides, who was he to deserve their pity? He was a mere speck of dirt on the great landscape of life. Unworthy, it was better for him to be alone. It was easier that way. Blowing through his crooked lips, he breathed in the earthy scent that surrounded him. For a moment he imagined that he was apart of the forest itself, ever changing and constant. Hardly soliciting a passing glance from travelers. He imagined the large pines and oaks lived a peaceful, untroubled life. If a branch rotted it fell off. Every leaf, every blossom had it’s place and purpose. It was a beautiful existence and one that he longed for more than anything.
The only comfort this life offered him was that someday his wish would be granted, he would one day melt into earth. He only prayed that he would then return as the trees that he so admired.
he’s spent a large majority of her life hidden away from the rest of the world. It had been a simple life for her, settled among the protective shoulders of her brothers, but it wasn’t the life she wanted. Wound’s childhood was spent lusting after the lives everyone else seemed to get (happy lovers, happy children, happy jobs) while she was stuck in the shadows among the decomposing leaves and cobwebbed corners.
It wasn’t until she was well into adulthood that Wound broke free from the darkness of the forests of Beqanna. She’d pushed through stereotypes as well — the belief that someone deformed by history or genetics wasn’t suited for a life in the spotlight. Although her many defects (the undevelopment of her right foreleg, the itch and swell of her skin following sand contact, the near-endless bleeding of her cuts and scrapes) did hinder some pieces of her life, Wound’s spent most of her life learning to overcome those obstacles.
And while she has found a secure and loving home in Tephra, part of her still does yearn for the serenity of the deep forest. Wound’s island home provides little of that same aesthetic (smoke and ash and brine isn’t the same as leaves and shadows and decomposition) and so sometimes she seeks out the uncharted territories of Beqanna to spend a day or so.
After spending so many years among the rise and fall of the forest’s breathing, she can hear the homeostatic imbalances. His footsteps reach her silver-tinted ears despite the quiet of their beating. Wound is not frightened as she winds between thick trunks and deep undergrowth, though she is petite in size and not at all a fighting horse. Still, her lungs exhale a noise that shatters the otherwise normal rhythm of the forest. “I know you’re there.”
The edge of the forest was nearing. He could smell the lush green grass of the meadow lurking just beyond the next bend. Sunlight broke through the leaves stronger than ever and the browned leaves of commonly shadow dwelling plants shouted their complaints. Abandoned by the shadows, he felt a heat upon his skin. Instantly his comfort was gone, and he exhaled in anticipation. Only, suddenly, he became aware of footsteps a beat apart from his own.
He was no longer alone.
The more time he spent amongst the trees the more he came to realize that he was not the only admirer of the forest. He’d met more horses among the trees than he’d expected. In many ways he wasn’t trying to hide, but, in many more, he was. The coal black of his coat made it almost all too easy for him to escape the notice of fellow travelers searching for an escape amid the brambles and branches. Only, most had proved themselves to be far more conversational than he’d like to be.
Stopping abruptly, he trained his ears towards the steady pace of the stranger. It seemed that they too felt it necessary to pause and, for a breath, they stood there considering each other. It was a feminine voice that called out to him, her voice drifting over to him from the left side. She knew that he was there and, for a moment, he considered the course of action he wished to take.
If he left without a word she would surely see him as either a coward or a threat and, since he was neither, he aimed himself towards her and pushed through the brush that’d divided them. Standing there within her view he breathed deeply.
”I apologize,” he voiced by way of a greeting. ”I hope I did not frighten you.”
e appears from the darkness like a phantom to taunt her. For a moment, she loses her breath. But it is not because she is frightened by his face or the way he towers above her like a shadow of a tree. He is a replication of her, albeit a darker and taller and masculine one. He is a ghost back to haunt her and she finds her lungs screaming for air but nothing is coming.
When she does inhale, it is slow. The musk of decomposing leaves and wet undergrowth centers her. “There’s no need to apologize.” Her voice is gentle, though she doesn’t place pity there. Wound knows all too well the mask of pity or fear or sorrow that many put on when they see someone wrought with unfortunate circumstances. She has lived with it all her life, even in her moments of triumph.
Despite the newness of each other’s acquaintance, Wound steps closer. She stretches her face up toward the darkness of his own, jaw tipping upward so she might be able to touch the raw twist of his mouth with her own lips. If he lets her, it is a gentle and simple touch. It’s written with the composition of a hundred words which she has never and would never be able to express. These words are found in her coffee eyes too, which stare up into his own dark ones.
“We are alike.” It is whispered in their close proximity, barely a hush against the rhythmic songs of the forest around them. She is awed, caught up in a swirl of emotions and memories and thoughts and complexities that her heart threatens to break past the claws of her ribcage and spill out into the woods.
There is a familiarity that ignites between them. The brightly burning flames of two kindred souls alight once more. Unlike the many encounters before this one, Hephaestus did not shy away from the unassuming figure before him. Her exhale, the hidden sound that it was, sent his eye searching hers. She did not look upon him with morbid curiosity, instead it was almost as if she was glancing into a past nearly forgotten.
He was mournful to have respawns such hateful thoughts for, before him, appeared a mare, whole and beautiful.
Without hesitation she dismissed his apology, stating his lack of need for one. Internally, his insides lurch. He'd spent a lifetime apologizing. His existence, his continued will to live, and the gruel gift of his one eye - they were all things that caused him remorse on a daily basis.
As the mare steps forward her words are almost carried away by the wind, another victim to the forest. He leans into them, his well trained ears picking up every hushed, reverent tone.
"We are Alike."
The phrase was almost beautiful in its simplicity, if not slightly misguided by its falsity. As her lips brush against his, however, the constant toiling is hushed. There was no lust behind the gesture, nor no hidden agenda or vile curiosity begging to be sated. It was innocent and, it was in the quiet of the moment that he felt something that took him by surprise.
He felt wanted.
Tears pricked at his lower lid, threatening to spill past his carefully mortared walls. For a moment, he considered that she might let her glimpse into the pain that was his existence - to see the depth in which her touch had affected him.
But the walls stretched too high and, instead, he felt himself step away.
he doesn’t fault him for stepping away. Pressing her mouth to his had been a reckless decision, albeit a thoughtless one. It’s been a long time since she’s last seen someone who’s endured similar hardships to her. It’s caught her off-guard, tempting her to do things she wouldn’t have ever done in her right mind.
But she can’t help but feel a pinch of shame as he moves away from her. There had been a connection between them, thriving and alive, but it severs when their touch does likewise. A heavy sigh leaves her throat, centering her back into the world again. The forest swirls around her, creating more noise than she had noticed before, and her ears twist to catch the sounds.
“I… I’m sorry.” She stutters over her words, intense anxiety suddenly crippling her. It’s worse than it has been in a long while (the last time had been back before Tephra, in the moments when her feet were to step upon the Field’s grass) and she finds no words able to escape her throat. Her heart beats quickly, pressing against the confines of her ribcage.
Her eyes roll and suddenly the forest is pressing down on her. She can feel its weight against her shoulders. “I…” A choke and she’s stumbling, tripping over her panicked feet. But her deformed leg betrays her today and she stumbles further, the only thing stopping her from falling completely being the heavy chest of the forest stranger.
credit to nat of adoxography.
@[Hephaestus] So, Wound used to be super anxious when she was younger, and this entire experience just gave her a bit of a flashback and here she is D:
Memory was a fickle companion. There were many times when it brought a sense of warmth and familiarity, and other times when it provided nothing but pain. He could see in her eyes, the pain that resided there. Loneliness had been the one true constant throughout his young life and he could see it there, nestled deep within her. In some ways, their spirits had entwined together, forming a bond that surpassed even his own understanding.
Immediately he regretted the instinctive reaction he’d had to her tender touch. Deep within the pits of her eyes a panic spills forth as her ears begin to swivel uncontrollable. He could feel it too, the heaviness that surrounded him as a million eyes belonging to forest stared down at them. Insects and bird sang their melancholy songs and he stepped forward to remedy the distance between them.
Her apology is stuttered and broken, her previous confidence vanquished by the unseen demons of her troubled past. Helplessly he watches as her eyes roll and her body begins to shake – fear gripping her from the inside. A strangled sound escapes her lips as she stumbles forward. Without a second though, he steps into her collapse, catching her by the width of his chest.
It doesn’t matter that they’d only met a breath ago. A small part of him feels as though he is seeing himself, the torment of an unlived childhood. Of unexplored potential – a life never lived. There are no words to express the empathy he felt. Instead, he’d done what she’d done and pressed his lips gently against hers.
There had been times, as a child, in the dark of the night that his soul had longed for the tender touch of his mother. He’d watched helplessly from his place on the outside as she would tenderly kiss away his baby sister’s tears and whisper… “Everything will be alright.”
t’s embarrassing, falling apart in front of a stranger. The threads holding her together are unraveling and, in some dainty corner of her mind, she is struggling to weave them back together. She is grateful when her fall is broken by his strong chest, but her mouth will not work to offer her thanks. The forest presses in on them, so heavy Wound feels as though there were leaves packed in the depths of her lungs.
Her chest wheezes, sucking in dramatic gulps of air, while her mind races a hundred miles a minute. It had been a long, long time since her last episode as severe as this — and it had only been surrounded by the comfort of her brothers while wolves snapped nearby. There are no brothers to kiss her forehead or nestle against her sides.
But his closeness stills her. It is the physical touch that lessens the threat of the thick forest around them and makes the darkness seem less penetrative. His words ease her even more so and Wound forces herself to breathe deeply. Her shaking, slender fingers slowly begin to weave the undone cords back together. “Thank you,” she whispers.
She continues to rest herself against his chest, at least until the thickness in her chest seems lighter and her breathing has stabled. It is then that Wound pulls away, still remaining close to Hephaestus but relying not-so-much on his physicality. The silvery bay clears her throat, this time speaking louder. “I… Thank you.”
05-12-2018, 07:06 AM (This post was last modified: 05-12-2018, 07:07 AM by Hephaestus.)
The forest around them pulsed in time to his beating heart. The mare's closeness was unfamiliar to him, the touch of her soft body sending shockwaves through him. Often times lost to his seclusion, he'd survived without the necessity of touch. His own parent's had only ever graced him with their comforts once - and even then it was as they were attempting to still the rythem of his heart. From that moment on, as he bled clinging to the disastrous life he'd been given that he came to despise any form of physical contact. The silver laced mare had crossed all his boundaries and, for the first time, he allowed himself to lose himself in the moment.
As she trembled beside him, Hephaestus saw himself mirrored within the panicky windows of her soul. The fear and uncertainty...though he would never admit it, he'd felt all those things and more. Only, he'd learned to bury the trembling hypeeventilation that would rise up from the depths of him. He embraced his loneliness and called it friend. Beside him, he could feel her tense body slowly relax until the moment that she peeled herself away from him. For a moment, he found himself grieving the loss of her closeness - an altogether frightening realization.
Her whispered thanks tickled his ears and he is almost startled by it. When he'd first arrived upon the shores of Beqanna, he had never thought that it would be he comforting the broken. In his travels he had met many who thought themselves destestable and he'd offered his comfort. Somehow, he'd been enough to calm the raging storms within them. And each time he left them, his own torment seemed quieter.
Perhaps there was something he had to offer after all. Perhaps this journey didnt have to end with his death.
Standing independently now, the bay thanked him once more and he nodded stiffly in her direction, his eyes tracing across the whole of her body. Despite her right leg, she was beautiful beneath the leafy canopy above. He only wished that she could see herself through his eyes.
he doesn’t feel beautiful. In fact, there have only been fleeting moments when Wound has felt the courage to consider herself worthy of such a title. Those moments were mostly found under the warm gaze of Warrick’s brown eyes or standing alone on the edge of the sea. They never came to her under the expression of a stranger, let alone a stranger who witnessed and whispered her through her very own undoing.
Yet she can see it (there in the hint of his eyes, behind the familiarity of the shadows and the cool of the trees). She can see her face and her petite, deformed body swimming in his vision and her cheeks begin to warm with mingled embarrassment and shyness. “I’m Wound,” she tries. Maybe diverting the attention away from their staring — staring in which she feels herself also acknowledging the handsomeness of his features — will help her recollect both herself and her thoughts.
“I never caught your name.” Night is beginning to swirl down around them, the stars peeking through the thickness of the leaves above their heads. She wants to know his name (this handsome, similarly-crafted stallion in the woods) but Wound is suddenly aware of the night and her Tephra behind her shoulder. “I’m sorry, I really should be going.” It’s not a good idea to stick around in the cobwebs for too long, not when she is unprotected. And while she is secure within the realm of this large stranger, once she passes his eyesight she will be an individual again.
“Thank you, again.” Her voice is sweet and sincere, a warm light appearing out of the chilling darkness. “If you ever need anything, I’m in Tephra.” And with that, she turns and disappears into the shadows as easily as she had come.
credit to nat of adoxography.
@[Hephaestus] / i figured this would be a good place to end this... feel free to reply if you want so we can say she knows his name haha. or we can just assume he replied with it.
