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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


    if romance is dead, I guess I'm a necrophiliac; any
    #1
    Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
    With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
    And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane;



    Time has become both everything and nothing, to him.
    It is everything because he is drowning in the number of years he’s spent alive (with a respite between them, but ah, he’d returned, and thought it a curse rather than a blessing). They are chains at the ankles, anchors, and sometimes he thinks it’s a miracle he can move at all beneath such weight.
    Yet –
    Yet it is nothing because for all the years (the decades – longer?) he carries, he no longer shows it. His mane has not gone gray, his muscles have not atrophied, he looks young, almost, primed. He feels anything but, of course, he feels old and dead and
    hurt, savaged by the world about him. But his body doesn’t betray it, not at first, one would have to stare deep into his godforsaken orange eyes, would have to be wise to what lurks there, all those heartbreaks and the uglier things, too, the sins he longs to forget, the sins that, like the years, weigh upon him and keep him heavy.
     
    Yet it is nothing.
    A black stallion moves through the meadow, unsure of his purpose here, only knowing that his weary hooves have brought him to this damnable familiar place, along paths he knows but have changed, in the time he has been away. And sure, his stride his slow, and if you look too long upon him perhaps a sense of wrongness scratches at the back of the mind, but mostly, he is just a sleek young thing, nothing remarkable about him save for those orange eyes, the ones that almost glow, like jack-o’-lanterns.


    Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
    I never saw a brute I hated so;
    He must be wicked to deserve such pain.


    Reply
    #2
    She thinks she was in love, once. But maybe only the once. His face is hardly a blur in her mind but something stirs between her ribs when she remembers his name. Some ugly, crippled thing breathes into life when she whispers it to no one at all but she never lets that soft, supple weakness out for long before she chokes the light from it once more. There is only ever room for her children, now. She watches them from afar and admires the way they grow and run and die right in front of her eyes.

    Someday, she hopes this immortality dies with her.

    But there is a face that draws her from her little hiding place today, out into the sun that has forgotten the strong curve of her shoulders and the scars that shine across her hips. Her left temple is discolored from the day he bashed her skull in but she doesn’t seem to mind anymore. Water under the bridge. She laughs a little at her own joke and steps closer, tracing her lips over his shoulder as she tries to remember the brief little life they had together.

    Does he still taste the same? She wonders, because she can’t quite recall when he was her honey and wine. That was so many lives ago. Mordgeld still felt things down to her bones back then and she’d give it all up to return to that place.

    My name is Mordgeld,” she says, smiles like she’s still young and coy. “What’s yours?

    Her smile doesn’t pull quite so far to the left, with scar tissue freezing some parts of her face. But she turns her head so he doesn’t have to see the ugly marks he left her with. Instead, she just offers her good side like maybe he forgot. She wants to ask if he saw all the beautiful children that their son helped bring into the world but she keeps these thoughts to herself. Today is not the day to free that crooked, hungry heart.
    MordgelD
    i am the dragon breathing fire.
    beautiful man, i'm the lion.
    @[garbage] wait a minute this isnt my finance homework. woops.
    Reply
    #3
    Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
    With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
    And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane;



    His rebirth was mostly cruelty – he did not want to live again, see – but there was a small kindness. His mind did not come back fully. Much of it has returned, and moreso, there are dreams – one full of bodies, dead and alive, and he wrongs them, again and again, in a variety of ways, but the common denominator is him and his wrongdoing.
    Don’t touch the boy, don’t kill the woman, don’t come closer,
    don’t -
    There are so many faces, for there are so many sins, and some of them are sharp and distinct (his mother, gold and then red, then dead), but many of them are indistinct, nightmares floating on a distant shore that he has not yet landed upon.

    He sees the woman, dark and scarred, and his heart speeds up and his throat closes, but he does not recognize her, her name does not rise to his tongue. There is something, though, because he looks at her and feels – what is it? Lust or guilt or both, but these are emotions that haunt him constantly, so he does not know the validity of them, he does not yet know that once her bones crushed beneath his hooves.
    (Don’t come closer.)
    He smiles, or tries to, his lips pulling in a mimicry, but he doesn’t meet her eyes. He pretends this is because he is shy, respectful, but really it’s fear, fear that he might meet her eyes and see things he does not want to see.
    “Mordgeld,” he repeats, and his lips form around the name with no trouble, as if it’s been spoken before, or screamed.
    “I’m Garbage.”



    Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
    I never saw a brute I hated so;
    He must be wicked to deserve such pain.




    it's not your homework but here's a good formula:
    =SUM(garbage + mordgeld + convenient rebirth semi amnesia)
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