"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
06-07-2019, 11:23 PM (This post was last modified: 06-07-2019, 11:24 PM by midnight.)
Midnight
Starsin welcomed Midnight with open arms, and yet he cannot shake the feeling that he must leave. Perhaps it is a side effect of abandonment, perhaps not - he is too busy distracting himself with a wild, alien world to really know.
So, even with as vigilant as his sister is, the mischievous talon-footed boy escapes the clutches of Loess for the first time. When he passes the border, he comes to a total halt, fascinated by the way the scents change. He turns his head, blinking at the invisible line he has crossed. Sylva smells funny and the trees are wider than he is, but continues to delicately stop forward.
It is hot, and what dead leaves crumple beneath his talons are few and far between. Ivy spirals up a tree trunk every now and again, and hardy bits of greenery poke out of the dead ground. Midnight pauses to stare at the curling leaf of a small devil’s ivy, the soft lines of face casting rounded shadows.
Sylva is there and then gone, and the soft moss beneath him turns to dust and grass. Sulfur is strong and hot in his nostrils. Once again, the colt passes another border; once again, he pauses to stare as if the invisible line will appear. He rolls his eyes and casts a line of light over where he imagines the two scents mingle, finding it satisfying to split the kingdoms apart. In his little brain, there is no room for the gray that inevitably resides between black and white.
There is and there is not.
Just as there was once a mother, and now there is not.
Midnight turns from the light border as it fades, digging his claws into the hardened earth of Tephra. He casts sullen (yet still quietly curious) eyes over the tropical landscape.
now I wake up in the mornings and all the kindness is drained out of me i spend hours just wincing and trying to regain some sense of peace
She was born in Loess, transferred to the East, and then moved here when her parents had eventually reconciled. So much of her young years have been a blur—so much of it has been lost within the details. She doesn’t know why so much of her home is burned and she certainly doesn’t know that there was a version of her mother before the woman that she is now—the woman with flowers in her hair and magic that sometimes seeps into her eyes, turning the hazel from greens and browns to molten gold.
But because she doesn’t know, she doesn’t mourn what might have been her childhood.
Instead, she just loves her twin brother and her other siblings. She loves her father who is different and yet the same as when she was born. She loves her mother. And she loves each land that she has been lucky enough to call home—but this one especially. Even with the scorched earth and the smoke, she loves the tiny marks of rehabilitation. The greenery that has begun to sprout through the hardened magma.
She is walking through it today—admiring the handiwork of her mother—when she spots the boy. Intrigued, she begins to make her way toward him. She is no longer the tiny girl of her youth, but she is still clearly a child; the wisteria in her mane is soft and falls ivory amongst the endless black of her, and her sage eyes are soft as she walks up to him. “Hello,” her voice is breathy and soft, a mark of her usually reserved nature as she looks at him. “My name is Larke. Who are you?”
—LARKE—
there is not in the wild world a valley so sweet as the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet
Amongst the rubble and regrowth of Tephra, Midnight learns. He digs his talons into the mostly blackened soil, diving deep enough to unearth rich and healthy dirt beneath. The needle-sharp grips wrap around the earth and tug, ripping out ash and dust and roots that survived the fire. He lifts his prize to just below his chest and takes a sniff, emerald eyes wide as they study thin white strips of undergrowth. The colt is gentle when he returns the soil to the ground, even patting it flat so that it is almost as if there never was a hole.
Midnight sighs to himself, somber eyes now trained faithfully upon what vines bravely sprout from the scorched floor. For a moment, he experiences kinship: he, too, has been burned, and at such a young age. Though, for now, it is just a sinking feeling in his chest he does not yet understand.
When Larke approaches, the black and white boy is still transfixed with the vines; though, one cannot call him “transfixed” so much as “zoned out.” His green eyes have a thin film of distance over them, telling any onlooker that he is no where near their shared physical universe; still, he shivers to life when she offers hello, lost eyes finding that same guarded acceptance he felt when he first met Starsin.
What is your name?
Midnight laughs, a genuine and boyish noise. No one has ever asked him his name (he has always offered it, as Starlust proved he must). Normally, he is up to enough mischief to hide whatever strange pain he might be feeling, which leaves him quick enough on his feet to offer himself before he can be rejected.
Now, he is caught entirely off guard.
“My name is Midnight.” The blunt way he speaks is softened by his age. “I like your flowers. Is your name Flower?”
now I wake up in the mornings and all the kindness is drained out of me i spend hours just wincing and trying to regain some sense of peace
07-06-2019, 06:29 PM (This post was last modified: 08-05-2019, 01:22 AM by larke.)
She does not notice how far away he is until she is close and can watch his consciousness nearly snap back into place. It gives her pause and a slight twinge of regret for having disturbed him. He had looked so peaceful and she feels a slight burn of shame at having intruded. Still, it is too late to do anything about it and Larke has never been the kind to let herself sink into the negative emotions for too long.
Instead she is quiet and observant, her sage green eyes clear as she studies him.
“Midnight,” she repeats, her soft smile curling her lips as she savors the sound of it. “You have such a beautiful name,” she breathes, her voice a touch deeper than one might expect, but lovely all the same. She has always loved the evening; she loves the way that the world quiets and the way that it becomes so still so that she feels like she can practically hear the buzzing of stars like lightning bugs on the horizon.
When he asks for her name, she doesn’t hesitate, assuming that he must not have heard her. After all, she had been the one who had interrupted him. “Oh no,” her laughter is quiet and not unkind. “Although perhaps that would be more fitting.” She rolls her delicate, youthful shoulders. “My name is Larke.”
She is quiet for a second, looking past him to the inner, sloping pieces of Tephra.
When her eyes come back to him, they focus on his own. “My mother says that I was named for the songbirds that you can sometimes find here.” She grows a little shy but doesn’t retreat entirely. “Although I do not think I have a voice worthy of such a name. It is wonderful to imagine I someday might.”
—LARKE—
there is not in the wild world a valley so sweet as the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet
It is strange to feel enraptured at such a young age. Midnight’s eyes are wide and mesmerized at the subtle changes of Larke’s face. It is awe but . . . somehow, it is empty, like a heat mirage wavering above a poorly travelled road. It is not attraction that draws him, in an adult sense of the word; yet, the colt feels as if he has found the magnet perfectly opposite to him.
He smiles at her name - Larke, like birds amongst her home. Midnight draws light together in the shape of a bird, orders it to flap and then land between his new companion’s ears. “Larke,” he repeats, then the little creature dissipates. A bright white halo settles atop his head, illuminating his face like the first break of sunlight on a stormy day. He wants to place it over head, to murmur in his typical, blunt way, angel; because she is an angel, at least in the sense a child knows it (a savior).
“Larke,” the black and white colt states, “have you ever thought that you look like a lark?” He does not mean that in a literal way - he has no idea what a lark even looks like, though he is certain this filly is a little bird. The delicate wave of her voice paired with such soft, silky eyes. He is certain if she tried to sing, she would be beautiful. “I don’t think my sister would like you. Isn’t that really funny? You are from Tephra and very soft, but I still like you. Starsin is weird.”
now I wake up in the mornings and all the kindness is drained out of me i spend hours just wincing and trying to regain some sense of peace
08-03-2019, 08:34 PM (This post was last modified: 08-03-2019, 08:34 PM by larke.)
She is comfortable in the space beside him—comfortable in most things—and although she is shy, she does not struggle to hold his gaze. Her eyes grow round with delight as he manipulates the light, sending a bird of his own creation toward her and then resting weightlessly above her. “Oh,” she exclaims, her voice delicate and breathy—soft as if she might frighten the bird of light into taking flight.
“That is so lovely,” she sighs, her sage eyes studying his face. “How did you learn to do that?”
She smiles again at his question, angling her head in thought. “I don’t know what I look like,” she says, honestly. She has never spent time looking into still waters or trying to catch a glimpse of the arch of her throat or the curve of her jaw. She has no idea that her eyes are the color of foggy meadow mornings or that the flowers that grow in her mane curl and drape downward to her youthful shoulders.
But her attention doesn’t linger on herself for long. Instead, she looks toward him, frowning a little at the way he so bluntly admits his sister’s distaste for her. “Oh,” but this time it is quiet, rooted in some hurt, rooted in confusion. “I would want her to like me,” she confesses, because she doesn’t know what it means to be disliked—what it means to not be immediately welcomed and wanted and loved.
She brushes it to the side though, trying to not let the hurt take too deep of roots.
“I have a gift too,” she brightens at the thought of it, “but I haven’t really tried it on anyone other than my family before.” Larke feels it rustling within her, the leaves of it blown about. “Want to try?”
—LARKE—
there is not in the wild world a valley so sweet as the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet
Oh, her gasp is soft and fills the air between them so perfectly. Midnight is beginning to observe and appreciate such little things, like the way her breath can part the light. He smiles and watches her lashes flutter, slowly twirling his halo above his head. “I sneezed one day and light came out,” is his simple reply. It’s true - and then he kept his power a secret from his mom. “Starsin showed me how to blow things up with it, though.” Not exactly true, but she did show him how to blow things up.
There is a quiet hurt upon Larke’s face when she utters oh again. Midnight’s head pulls back, uncertainty creasing his face. “Well, I bet she will like you if I tell her I like you.” He does not know how to be gentle, but his backtracking has its merit. All he knows is he does not like that furrow of her brow and the downward curve of her lips. A mildly panicked I’m sorry begins to spill from his lips, but then Larke brightens, and so Midnight does, as well.
The light-weaver picks up his head and prances in place. “What kind of gift?” is his chirping reply. “Is it one like this?” Little stars of light begin to rain down on his new companion. The emerald green of his eyes reflect the snowing blips, and even he is mesmerized for a moment: his power grows stronger with each new creation. Eventually, Midnight does return his attention to Larke, the sweetness of a boy enchanted present in his gaze.
“What is it?! I hope it’s not like mine, that would be so cool. I want to learn all about the magic here. I bet you can teach me so much.”
now I wake up in the mornings and all the kindness is drained out of me i spend hours just wincing and trying to regain some sense of peace
08-04-2019, 11:54 PM (This post was last modified: 08-05-2019, 01:22 AM by larke.)
He has something of darkness and light within him and she is mesmerized by the way that they coil in his chest. She does not have words to explain what she finds so fascinating about it—whether it is the way that his talon dig into the earth or the halo that spins atop his head. She does not know that she has already inherited more than her mother’s healing touch and gentleness but also her inexplicable love of those with shadows in their heart. That she too will spend her days longing for those who carry them.
All she knows is she feels a gravity toward the boy and does not fight it.
Does not fight it even when she grows slightly bashful and shy before it.
“It’s not like yours,” she affirms in her soft voice, a corner of her dark mouth curving in the corner. She angles her horned head toward him and watches him, feels the curiosity blossom in her chest and then a nervousness that she would not be able to control her gift. It was still so new and although she has done her best to practice, she has not yet been able to stretch it to its limits—has not learned the edges of it.
Still, she cannot back down now and looking at his bright eyes, she doesn’t want to.
So instead she just smiles and nods. “Close your eyes okay?” It was easier when she didn’t have an audience—perhaps that is why she so prefers healing strangers from afar—but this was a new challenge. When she is certain that he is not looking, she takes a deep breath and hums lightly. It was easier sometimes when she felt that musical river run through her and she wades so deeply into her healing that she does not have a chance to be ashamed or self-conscious about it. Instead, she feels the golden light pool in and through her and then she directs it outward, sending it toward her newest friend.
It weaves through his youthful body—looking for whatever aches and pains it can—and she guides it with a gentle hand. When she is certain that there is nothing left for her to heal, she winds it back into her chest. She takes a steadying breath, feeling that slight sheen of sweat on her neck and then smiles.
“Okay. I’m done.”
—LARKE—
there is not in the wild world a valley so sweet as the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet
He is soft when he should not be. It is not that Midnight cruel, or even terribly sharp-edged, but that he does not know gentility like most children do. He does not turn that lacking into brutality, either - he simply seeks what might fill that beckoning void. Here, even as a child, he is too doting too quickly. Unlike Starsin, there is not a knowing solidarity in the way Larke peers at him - there is genuine, foreign connection, and he tumbles over that hill in the playful bounce of a boy.
The pretty gleam of the girl’s born drawn Midnight’s gleaming gaze from her face. They start at the bottom of the spiral then slow drift to its lethal point. What a glittering weapon she makes, the little Larke - of course, the colt does not understand this, so his eyes remain dreamy upon the tip that could end his life. “Is that your power?” he murmurs, almost inaudibly. It never occurs to him that if her horn is what she wishes to show him, then the outcome of her display may not end well for him.
If he were a man, fresh on the cusp of adulthood, he might convince himself it would be an honor to die by that sword.
All goes dark when Midnight closes his eyes, eager to do her bidding and eager to know what she has to offer. Wave after wave of renewal passes through the boy’s body, and he releases a wild oh. Any exhaustion felt after wielding so much of his light disappears. Shoulders straightening, the colt draws in a pleased breath. “Wow . . .” The whisper is just loud enough for Larke to hear.
The moment Midnight opens his eyes, he searches for the face of his angel. A layer of sweat glimmers on her neck, and the boy gasps in indignation. The light of the sun the liquid possess he angrily steals; immediately, he places the tiny white orbs amongst the flowers in her hair. “That was nice, but are you tired? Can you take it back? I don’t want you to be tired.” There is hardly any panic in Midnight’s tone, but his eyes give away his instant concern.
now I wake up in the mornings and all the kindness is drained out of me i spend hours just wincing and trying to regain some sense of peace
08-05-2019, 01:21 AM (This post was last modified: 08-05-2019, 01:21 AM by larke.)
Larke has never considered that someone may not like her exerting herself to this degree.
Perhaps because she has never practiced like this in front of her family—preferring to fail and fail again when off on her own—or perhaps because she never thinks of herself first at all. So she is surprised when there is the concern etched onto his handsome, young face and her eyes widen a little in surprise. “It’s okay,” she breathes out and if the fatigue touches the edges of her voice, she barely notices it.
“I’m still getting stronger,” she tries to explain, glancing down to see the way that light clings to her now. It brings a faint smile to her face, curving the corners of her mouth. “But it’s a good tired.” She grows quiet for a second, closing her eyes and trying to hunt through her brain for the right word—trying to find a way to explain to him that she enjoys the way she aches when it’s done, the way it settles in her body.
“It’s like when you go on a long run,” she starts and opens her eyes again, searching for his own gaze and then holding it steady. “When you’re done and your legs burn and your lungs sting but you feel like you found out something new about yourself—like you know a secret about how far you can go.” She grows brighter and brighter in the explanation and then sweeps her lashes down in a sudden bout of shyness.
“That probably doesn’t make any sense.” She laughs lightly, airily. “I’m okay though—I promise!"
—LARKE—
there is not in the wild world a valley so sweet as the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet
