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  • Beqanna

    version 22: awakening


    GHAUL -- Year 209


    "(souls are not meant to live more than once — death was not meant to be temporary, and she is so sure that every time her heart starts to beat again that irreversible damage is further inflicted)" -- Anonya, written by Colby

    black ocean, cold and dark, any

    i took the poison praying you'd feel it, too
    i wrapped my neck and prayed that you'd feel the noose

    In the end, she had smiled.
    But he’d already closed his eyes.
    In the end, he’d done what he had to do.

    How desperately he had tried to save her. They say that death is not romantic, that all that blood is never beautiful, it is just red. And why should he be rewarded for his failures? He had brought death upon her, hadn’t he? The darkness had followed him for miles and he had kissed her head and smiled. They had stood in a kind of half-silence with their faces to the wind and the darkness had descended upon them in the next instant.

    She had not even screamed. As if she’d been expecting it. A tiger. A vicious, vengeful thing that had sunk its teeth into her throat. How desperately he had tried to save her. His sister. And when it was over, they were all soaked through with blood. It dripped from their teeth. She had smiled despite the violence, the gasping, shrieking chaos. Because her brother had returned to her and kissed her head and fought against what was killing her until his knees buckled. She lay there in the sand – great swathes of desert – and he’d channeled all of his fury on the tiger, consumed by his grief and his hurt and all the blood in his mouth and the tiger had splintered and then shattered.

    And Kensley was new.
    And he did not know what to do but to return to Beqanna.
    But Beqanna was new, too.

    He wanders now and thinks of his sisters. He wonders where Kennice is, thinks that he’d feel her if she were still here. He does not wonder about his mother or his father or the fact that he had loved someone once. He blinks into the golden light as if he’s surprised to find the sun still shines here at all.

    He drags in a shuddering breath and wonders if, when it gets tired, the heart will simply stop.

    shattered son of jarris and plumeria


    He stands against the vivd green of a great grass ocean, pale and lost, as the colors of wildflowers burst around him. They drift and dance as the summer breeze teases and tangles through the delicate tendrils of hair and vegetation alike. Romantica is unremarkable save for the pretty features of her delicate womanly face and body. Romy watches him as he drifts quietly in his thoughts and she can feel a lurch in her chest as she feels as though she could understand what turmoil lay in his heart (though there was no way she could know).

    The pale rose grey woman breathes in a sweetness in the humid air, birds chatter overhead as they twitter back an forth, but the man pays no mind to it. She decides she must attempt to regain some sort of socialization and places one slender leg in front of the other and moves towards him. A nicker of greeting is offered so she does not startle him, cautious of a striking hoof or mouth, if he should want to left along. "Hello." It's a small offering as the dappled mare stops a respectful distance away.

    Dark eyes attempt to read his features. She is not of the talented, traitless and plain, in this world where horses mimic any and all abilities. Romantica finds beauty in her simplicity though others may find her boring and uneventful. The  delicate mare if hopeful to find conversation with the lone man on a beautiful summer day. She gives a smile, tilting her head with ears forward to further convey her interest.


    i took the poison praying you'd feel it, too
    i wrapped my neck and prayed that you'd feel the noose

    He has changed.
    In more ways than just the fantastical.

    Kensley was born soft. Quiet. Lovely, even. He was born forgiving and sweet. There had been nothing peculiar about him. He had never doubted that he was loved or that he deserved to be. He had inherited his mother’s kindness, patience, temperance.

    And maybe he still is all of those things, but there is a darkness in him, too. Maybe it is grief tightened like a vise around his throat. Each beat of his heart echoes in the cavern of his chest and it feels like betrayal. He has afforded himself no forgiveness. Because it should have been his throat the tiger sunk its teeth into. Because he should have seen it coming and he should have cast himself between them.

    It is this that he’s thinking about when the soft nicker steals him from his thoughts. He lifts his head slow, blinks into the sunlight until he lands eyes on her. He turns to face her – the gesture a relic from his past life, a gentleman. One corner of his mouth stirs in a distant kind of smile as he studies her.

    She is not familiar and he makes no effort to try to place her. She stops short and he nods once. “Hello,” he echoes. “You can come closer,” he says, ducking his head to gesture with his nose toward the great swath of grass in front of him. “I don’t bite.” There is no mirth in his tone, though perhaps there should have been.

    And perhaps he still is the old Kensley simply drained of his warmth.

    shattered son of jarris and plumeria


    Romantica moves when he bids her closer. Usually when a man used those same words, there was a hidden malice beneath the honey on their tongue but Romy sees the man as an open book (perhaps a naive fault of her own?) There is a sadness in the depths of his eyes and he wears an unseen weight around his neck. It hangs upon the slop of his shoulders and the haunt of a smile he attempts to wear.

    A broken soul.

    Romy can see the splinters just beyond the handsome mask he wears but she would not dare pick at the edges. It felt good to simply be acknowledged by  a kind voice and honest eyes. The dappled mare reflects a smile upon her features as she takes tentative steps closer, her pale hair in her eyes. There is an innocence in her eyes despite that she is not a child. Romy holds to a time of warmth and welcoming where darkness has once been. She is careful not to mingle amongst the wicked.

    "My name is Romantica...Romy..." Her voice is lifted and light as she offers her name. She had once been warmed of giving it for it was believed it should be asked lest another hold a power over you but Romy is a ind mare, trusting and soft. She liked the company of the grey stallion for he saw her standing there in her plainness. She wanted to ask his name but hesitates for being perceived as rude and would allow him to make the choice to offer it.

    Romy notices her drifts, not in a blatant way, but she can see something is working in his brain. It draws her closer in the natural urge to hold him but that would be perceived as being far too forward and intrusive but perhaps in time she may come to know and understand the man...but for now she stands quietly in her girlish mannerisms, smiling and looking to him with openness upon her features.


    i took the poison praying you'd feel it, too
    i wrapped my neck and prayed that you'd feel the noose

    Perhaps he should be unnerved by how intently she studies him.
    But he feels no overwhelming urge to cast his own gaze away.
    He does not duck his head in shame.
    Even if she can smell the blood on him.
    Even if she can taste the sadness in him.
    No, he goes on watching her watch him.

    She comes closer and his muscles quiver. He has not been able to shake the sensation that he’s being watched. And if only he’d had the feeling weeks earlier, when he’d ventured across the desert to his sister, oblivious to what followed him along the way. If only he’d cast a glance over his shoulder, perhaps death would have come for him instead. Perhaps it would have been him laid to waste.

    He swallows thickly when she speaks again. She offers her name, though he hadn’t asked. But he is nothing if not his mother’s son and he nods. There, again, the faint stirring of a smile in the furthest corner of his mouth as he files her name away. It is the first name he’s learned in years, he thinks. “Romy,” he says and the smile is gone before it ever came to fruition.

    My name is Kensley,” he volunteers. It doesn’t matter that the name feels like it belonged to someone else and that he has no right to call it his own anymore. Kensley had been good and kind and decent. And what is he? None of those things anymore. Not with all of the darkness swallowing him whole. Not with a life that does not belong to him swimming in his veins.

    He is not oblivious to her trepidation or her inherent uncertainty. He wonders why she’s come here, if there’s something she wants from him or if she is somehow under the impression that his company might somehow be preferable to being alone.

    shattered son of jarris and plumeria


    Perhaps the naivety of her nature would be her down fall, allow her to be consumed by a wold in sheep's clothing. She had known none of the loss that he hides beneath hooded eyes, glassy and distant despite the closeness of their bodies. "And Kensely." The mare chimes with a quirked mouth, curved and genuine as she reflects a satisfaction to know he was no longer a stranger.

    Romy looks off with a slight uncertainty of how to continue their conversation. It seemed so mechanical to go through the usual reel of questions, dissecting a history of names that she would never known. The hum of insects drift between them and seem to grow louder as her lips slid closed. Romantica was comfortable in silence but wonders if the man was as well.

    The dappled mare turns away slightly, her dark eyes drifting, as she sighs. Autumn was a creeping beast just beyond the bright green of summer leaves. She wonders where she will go, if she would even stay. Beqanna's fickle nature had the ability to wink out a horse, snuffing like a candle flame, just over night. "Do you call a place home?" She asks gently when returning her gaze to Kensley's own eyes. She had no home of her own nor had she ever really laid enough roots down to even claim an alliance among the lands but it was always a good question to ask when enjoying the company of a new face.


    i took the poison praying you'd feel it, too
    i wrapped my neck and prayed that you'd feel the noose

    He doesn’t mean to be rude, really.
    Kensley has never been anything if not polite.
    But there is some comfort in the silence, too.
    It is enough sometimes simply to know that you’re not alone.

    He is content in his – their – silence. Still, he feels no stirring of resentment when she speaks again. He levels her with his steady, brown-eyed stare and tilts his head.

    He had called Beqanna home once, but he does not recognize her anymore. He had lived for a time in the Chamber before it became something else entirely. He had called it home only because his sister had been there and he’d loved the queen. He had been too passive for it, really. Too soft. He had called this meadow home, too, for the vast majority of it his life. He’d traversed it with his daughter, who he wonders about now but tries not to dwell on. He hopes that she’s happy – or that she was happy.

    No,” he says and it’s really that simple. There is no sadness in his tone, although he has mourned for the home he had here once. “I’ve been away a long time,” he adds from someplace far-away, his gaze turned back toward the horizon in the direction of the world he’d come from. The world where he watched his sister die.

    What about you?” he asks then, without looking at her.

    shattered son of jarris and plumeria

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