"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 felt a strange heaviness in his bones ever since he woke from the quest.
He had failed, but he didn’t feel himself grow upset with the knowledge of it. He just acknowledges that he had made the wrong choice—taken the wrong path—but doesn’t necessarily agree with it. Sure, his path had resulted in his body being ripped apart, shredded, but it feels more dreamlike than reality. More of his mother’s fabrications and the nightmares don’t follow. Just the strange heaviness, his hooves now shining like his eyes, purple and crystalline, shimmering with the light that pulses around his body.
Regardless, Aegean doesn’t feel like staying home.
The quest had opened up a chasm of wild exploration in his breast, something that had already simmered there but took new life when the oxygen hit it. It drew him outside of the Cove, away from his home, the night already darkening the autumn evening. He found his way to the bridge, smiling serenely as he made his way across it, the shadows and the light melding into something ethereal and serene and perfect.
When he reaches the island and it stretches around him, he feels a strange fluttering in his chest. He breathes it in and continues forward, walking amongst the crowds and feeing them ebb and flow around him. The night has fallen but it is not dark on the island with the floating orbs of light that surround him, with the snow that is illuminated by it. It is one of the most beautiful things he has ever seen, even in the dreamlike world he so often traversed by his mother’s side, and he smiles, overjoyed with the moment.
He can only imagine the memories that he will make tonight.
Even if they are only things he looks at from the outside, a silent observer to the masses.
can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars,
I could really use a wish right now;
She had made it back to Tephra, but not unscathed. The symptoms of the plague had settled in her veins after her adventure to the playground, but she had not realized it until she had made it back home. Her mother was devastated, and that was enough to convince the filly to never venture out of a safeland again. She couldn’t bear the sight of how guilty her mother felt; constantly blaming herself, fretting over whether or not her father would be angry at her for not keeping better track (”As if I needed another mistake to add to the list,” Ryatah had muttered as she cradled her fever-warm daughter against her side). It wasn’t meant to make her feel bad, and yet, she did.
The holiday party was the perfect escape. Island Resort was safe, her mother had said, and with the aid of the twilight bridge, she didn’t even have to swim anywhere. With the pale white mare alongside of her, the small jade-colored filly prances excitedly across the bridge, the effects of the plague hardly dulling her sweet laugh that bubbled from her throat as she marveled at the wonder of it all. ”There’s snow everywhere, mama, and there’s lights floating. They look like stars, but I think I could touch them.” She was used to describing everything that she saw to Ryatah, and she was always met with an appreciative tug of her ever growing mane. Even though her bones ached, and her eyes were glossy with fever, she didn’t want to be anywhere else.
For a moment, Evenstar simply stops, staring out in wide-eyed amazement at the beauty of it. It reminded her of Icicle Isle, a little bit – and she cannot help but to wonder if Gilt was here – but it was somehow softer, more enchanting. Following a glowing orb of light as it floats across the expanse, she finds her gaze soon falling upon a familiar face; the ethereally white boy from the playground. With a touch to Ryatah’s shoulder to signal that she was leaving her side, she begins to make her way towards him. She ducks her head as she gets closer, her usual shyness overcoming her, though she sneaks a small glance up to him as she says softly, ”Hi Aegean. I didn’t know you would be here.” Her soulful brown eyes finally level with his, a slow smile spreading across her emerald lips. He was almost as bright as the snow that surrounded him, and she wonders if he knows how lovely he looks against it.
The plague lives within Aegean now, although it will take some time before he feels it.
Perhaps he will realize the seed of it was planted that fateful day in the playground. Perhaps he will think it was when he turned away from that disease-ridden mare during the quest. Perhaps he will think it was something he picked up during the party itself. It doesn’t matter because the plague will not matter to the glowing white boy. He will bear the illness the way that he bears all things, with a vague curiosity and a strange, serene calmness. He will accept it as fate and will not struggle against it, even when it aches.
Still, such thoughts are far from him now, and he is content to watch the party, to study the lights and watch as the float around, touching down and then ballooning upward. His face is stuck with awe, his youthful appreciation of the magic not hidden and the prince not attempting to act unimpressed. Still, there is a gravity to his face, his amethyst eyes as wild and ranging as the cosmos above them.
When the girl of jade approaches, his smile tilts upward in the corners and he doesn’t waste time in approaching her. He has come from a family that is generous with their touches, and he has no shame in it now. He reaches out, pressing his nose into her feverish skin, not concerned with the proximity. For a second he lingers, drawing in her scent before he withdraws, searching her face and resting on her eyes.
“It was too beautiful to stay away,” his voice, each syllable wrapped carefully, proper care given to every corner of every word. “I am glad that you are here.” He had been intrigued with her from the first interaction, and he remembers the vibrance of her skin, the warmth in her eyes. He recognizes the signs of the sickness in her now, but he doesn’t comment on it—not directly. He doesn’t care if she’s sick; he just wants to make sure that she is comfortable and happy. “How have you been, Evenstar?”
Her name slips from his mouth, soft and precious and cherished.
01-04-2019, 10:19 AM (This post was last modified: 01-04-2019, 10:19 AM by Evenstar.)
can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars,
I could really use a wish right now;
She has never seen anyone as radiant as he — briliant, and somehow still so soft. He reminds her a little bit of her mother, but Ryatah’s color does not possess the same luminance. He is truly ethereal, with a serenity to match, and it makes her feel as though she is glowing from the inside just to be near him. She does not move from him when he reaches for her, and instead she finds herself leaning towards him, her small frame pressing into his. Her skin feels warm where his nose has touched her, and she lets her own satin-soft lips to caress just briefly against his neck, a smile resting easily on her lips.
”It is beautiful, isn’t it? Beqanna has another island that I’ve been to, where a part of it is covered in snow all the time.” Her voice is soft, nearly a whisper, as though she is telling him something that should be a secret, just for the two of them. Her dark brown eyes glimmer as she turns her gaze away from him to look at the shimmering lights again, wondering what sort of power was needed to produce something so lovely, and wishing she had it. ”I’m glad that you are here, too. I didn’t think I would know anyone.”
He asks her how she is, and she is briefly reminded of the ache in her bones, and she wonders if he can feel the fever as it radiates off her body, or can recognize the glossiness to her eyes. ”I’ve been okay,” she starts off cautiously, almost too shy to divulge what she is about to say next, not wanting him to think she was weak or trying to complain. ”I got sick, that day in the playground, I think. It’s...the only time I’ve never been in a safe land.” But she shakes her head, ridding her face of the worry that had previously been there. She touches her muzzle just lightly to his cheek, a flicker of concern in her eyes as she asks softly, ”How have you been? Are you sick, too?”
She is soft and gentle and he wants to cradle her close, wants to curl her into his chest so that he can protect her forever—cherish her and never let her go. Instead he remains content to be by her side and to let his purple eyes wander over the bright green of her face. “I would love to see that,” he says quietly, thinking of an island perpetually caught in the grips of winter. “It must be magical to experience.” His voice remains hushed, recognizing the stillness in her own, the way it barely rises, pressing into his palms with a steady kind of confidence: a gift, he thinks. Everything she says must be a gift.
But the conversation moves forward, and he doesn’t fight it—never fights the changing of the tides.
She says she is glad he is here, and he lets the smile in his dreamy eyes do the speaking for him.
He brushes his lips against the youthful crest of her neck, innocent kisses and friendship in the touch as he watches, feeling the fever burn beneath his touch. When she admits her illness, even going so far as to speculate its origins in the playground, there is no surprise or disdain or fear in his eyes. Instead he just makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. “I suppose I will get sick too then,” His lips pull down as he looks to the horizon. “What a strange world. To fail at finding a cure to only be inflicted with the disease.”
An elegant shrug that belies his clear youth.
“It matters not.”
He’s survived worst, he doesn’t say. Survives worst every day with a body that has tried, and failed, to kill him from birth. The lethal poison in his blood hasn’t claimed his life; this sickness surely won’t.
“I am doing okay,” he says at the touch of her to his cheek. He leans into it.
“I am much more concerned with how you are feeling. Do you need to rest?”
can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars,
I could really use a wish right now;
There is something about him that she finds incredibly mesmerizing, perhaps even more so than the lights that float above, more than the snow that glitters like crushed diamonds all around them. It is not just the soft way in which he glows; it’s the way that he looks at her, like she is the only one here. She is almost naive enough to believe it – to believe that she is captivating enough to earn such attention, from someone like him. But even for one so young, she had already learned that nothing that anyone does will ever be enough, to make someone stay. She has watched her mother – her sweet, loving, almost perfect mother – leave so many times; she has seen the look on her father’s face when he goes to draw her close and smells a stranger’s scent on her. She had been born of love, a timeless, never-ending love, but sometimes love just wasn’t enough.
She had realized that far too soon.
That didn’t keep her from leaning into his touch when his lips briefly found her neck, or from reaching to brush her green muzzle against his shoulder in response to what he has said. ”You tried to find a cure?” She has heard rumor of them, of the quests and journeys that others have been going on, but it had never occurred to try herself. The awe and wonder in her voice is evident as she murmurs softly, ”That’s awfully brave of you.” Her lips pull into another smile, though it is faint and concern still lingers, for his well-being.
She shakes her delicate head when he asks if she needs to rest, perhaps a little too adamantly. ”No, I’m fine.” Truthfully, she was fatigued almost all of the time, but she hated the idea of life passing her by. If her vibrancy had been dulled by the illness, she did her best to not let it show. Such as now, when she pulls away from him a step, ”I want to look at more of the lights,” and then, with a hopeful glance over her shoulder, her dark brown eyes seeking his when she asks, ”Come with me?”
Aegean was born of love—the kind of love that they wrote sonnets about. The kind of love that was writ upon the very bones of the earth. The kind that moved the heavens and rearranged the cosmos. The kind that was whispered about for years, for decades, for centuries to come. He knew it. It was the very thing that made up his very being and yet, and yet, the love that beats in his heart is a different thing entirely. It is a wild, ranging thing—both platonic and romantic and everything in between. It is a wild river that courses through him and consumes everything around him. He doesn’t know how to cage it. Doesn’t know how to contain it. And thus he falls in love again and again, with everyone he meets.
Perhaps it is a curse of his family.
Perhaps he, like his older brother, will someday learn to anchor it.
Or perhaps he will spend his days adrift in the ocean of it.
For now, he falls in love with the jade of her body and the hazelnut of her eyes and the sweet way that she smiles and touches his cheek. His heart thrums in his chest and his ethereal face is serene as she compliments him. He just shakes his head, the pale white of his lengthening mane whispering around his face, the delicate bones of it beautiful and handsome in the same breath. “I don’t know if it’s brave. It just feels like the thing to do,” his voice is soft, a secret between them. “It’s my duty, I think.”
He was a prince, after all, although such titles and responsibilities still elude him. Perhaps one day he will grow into them. Perhaps one day he will assume what is expected of him. Until then, he will grow up wild and free, floating along the wind. So when she steps back and beckons him forth, he doesn’t hesitate to step forward and close the distance again. His delicate note trails along her neck. “I would love nothing more,” and then he steps in next to her, walking further inland to where the lights twinkle and glow.
can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars,
I could really use a wish right now;
She craves something that she has never had, and maybe she is looking for it in him; in everyone. She is too young to recognize it for what it is, but it’s there. It’s there in the way her eyes watch him, hoping for acceptance, for some glimpse that she is enough – pretty enough, interesting enough, smart enough. She is afraid, that she is destined to be like her mother; never satisfied, always trying to fill a hole that didn’t even have a bottom. Young and naive, she thinks that maybe if she starts trying to fill that void now, she will succeed where her mother had failed.
She can’t see any of this for what it is, though. She just knows that she wants the glowing boy closer, that right now he is filling that empty space she had been born with. His eyes are so soft and warm, and somehow that warmth spreads to her bones when he looks at her – a glowing ember amongst this frigid snow. The smile that still rests on her lips is fragile but sweet, ducking her gaze shyly as he draws alongside of her once more.
They walk, and the snowflakes that still descend from the sky – or wherever the magic was conjuring them from – settle in and melt against her green skin, and blend in with her white mane. She watches the orbs as they float and glow, the light reflecting in her eyes, until she turns those same eyes to his. ”Where do you think the light comes from?” She says it as she watches a small sphere float particularly close, her shapely head tilted to the side in wonder. ”The stars, the sun, the moon….it must come from somewhere.” She realizes, then, how silly she sounds, and she shakes her head with a flustered laugh. ”Sorry, I think about strange things sometimes.”
I'm praying that this stairway leads somewhere like Heaven's door,
and when you get there don't look down
Perhaps they are cut from the same cloth—their hearts beating in tandem, their pulse looping softly together. Perhaps they both long for the same thing, that illusive and wild thing as love. He knows it in his very cells that he will always long for it, will always cherish it, will always worship it in a way. One day, he may find a love that grounds him, that anchors him (the kind of love of his mothers, that beautiful and rare thing) but he cannot imagine it. Cannot imagine this wild, thrashing heart being hidden away.
He wants to give it to those who are fierce, to those who are beautiful, to those who are soft.
He wants to give it to those who will love it and those who will ruin it.
But in this moment, when there is nothing but her and her soft eyes and fragile smile, he only wants to give it to her. He ducks his head as she does hers, shy in her presence even though he has never felt truly timid. But he is mild all the same, sure and steadfast even as the tides of him ebb and flow around her.
When she looks up, and then to him, she finds that his eyes are already on her, the amethyst of them serious and somber, tracing the youthful angles of her face. “I do not think it is strange,” he says quietly, his face grave. “I think of such things. I think such things are the most important of questions.”
His philosophers heart cannot help but wonder and dream.
“I am sure there is an explanation for all light as there is for all things,” he says, voice still a murmur, a delicate extension of himself. “But I cannot help but prefer to think of the poetic. That all light originates in and from us.” His pale lips spread into a dreamy smile as he angles his head toward her.
“Or perhaps that is simply wishful thinking from a silly boy who glows.”
