11-11-2019, 11:20 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Playfair+Display|Source+Sans+Pro' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .brigade_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #28271a; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; min-height: 500px; border: solid 1px #000; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .brigade_container p { margin: 0; } .brigade_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .brigade_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 560px; margin-top: -100px; margin-bottom: 20px; background: #00000070; border: solid 2px #252521; box-shadow: 0px 0px 20px 1px #000; } .brigade_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #797971; padding: 24px; line-height: 1.45em; } .brigade_name { font: 50px 'Playfair Display', serif; color: #252521; line-height: 0.8; padding-left: 20px; letter-spacing: 20px; } .brigade_quote { font: 10px 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; color: #797971; line-height: 1.5; letter-spacing: 1px; padding: 10px 0 20px 0; } </style> <center> <div class="brigade_container"> <img class="brigade_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/httFVHP6/brigadetwo.png"> <div class="brigade_text"> <p class="brigade_message"> Brigade remembers his death now, but he cannot say how he feels about it.
Part of him is relieved to have finally met it. Relieved to have been able to relinquish his hold on life and the endless pain that it has caused him—the pain that he himself has caused. He has nothing good to show from his living. Nothing accomplished that he was particularly proud of, although he has yet to come to grips with the fierce little girl who is supposedly his own. He knows that he is a coward. He did not step into the war between his current home and his childhood one. He did not protect anyone.
He did not return to see the damage—to see what had become of his family.
And that cowardice is something he has done his best to run from ever since.
So now, in his death, it is no different. He feels the walls come up, protecting himself from the truth of his death—from the sharp agony that accompanies the memory of his father’s spirit animal tearing apart his throat. He feels it dull and then blinds himself to it and then—suddenly, there is nothing again.
Brigade sinks into it, deeper and deeper into the darkness and when he awakes, it is to the sound of the crashing water. He blinks slowly, feeling the spray of it against his face, and he is only partially surprised to find that the wet of blood on his throat remains. It stings and when he lifts himself to his feet again, he nearly sways with the pain. His vision doubles and spots on the edges but he doesn’t fall.
He just blinks as the rest of his surroundings come into focus. He realizes he’s near a massive waterfall, and he watches as the strange woman splits into two—coming up onto both shores as one half of herself. It doesn’t mean anything to him, and what happens next (her instructions) matter less. There is no one who would be waiting for him; no one who would lure him forward. He wasn’t even sure he wanted it.
He stands amongst the war-battered and victimized of Beqanna on this side of the river as a coward with his throat ripped out and feels nothing but shame. Still, his foolish heart prods him anyway and he lifts his head. His stormy grey eyes study the other side of the bank and feel a sharp pang when one of the figures comes into focus. He himself no longer has his antlers (his wings either) but they remain proud on her head. She holds it high like he always remembered in childhood, her blue eyes piercing as she watches.
Mother.
His throat goes dry and he takes a step forward out of instinct. A childish want to return home and let his mother make it better. Soothe his aches and tell him that it’s going to be okay. That he will be okay.
But more than his desire to greet her is his fear and his failure.
They are stones in his chest, a vice around his throat, and his feet stop as suddenly as they had started. He shakes his wild head, sending dreadlocks of mane around his jaw, and his eyes are no longer dry. “I can’t,” he wants to say—wants to explain—but she can’t hear him. “I’m so sorry,” he wants to promise, but his apologies don’t matter. They won’t give her a brave son, or a good one, or one worthy of her.
So instead he remains trapped in this strange limbo with his choices hung heavily on his shoulders.
Until he hears the sound of the wolves behind him—snapping their jaws.
Terror seizes him but it doesn’t stir him into action. Not yet.
Would death be worse the second time around? Would it sting more? His blood drips heavily onto the bank of the river and he looks across the river again to his mother who has stepped forward until the water nearly laps against her legs. “You’re braver than this, Brigade,” she says, and he hears it clearly—against the natural laws that say it should be drowned out by the roar of the waterfall.
He shakes his head again and hears the panting of the wolves closer now.
One lunges and sinks teeth into his leg.
<i>I’m not. I’m not.</i>
But greater than his fear is his sense of self-preservation and he takes a lunging step forward, leg dragging behind him as the wolf releases him. The second that his foot touches the water though, it churns violently against him and he yanks it back. He knows that there is no way that he will be able to withstand it.
Brigade swallows, his hair on edge, and he begins to pace. The wolves close in again but do not attack yet. He feels the hot air of their breath, the promise of it lingering, and looks up again, eyes rimmed with white, his lips pulled taut. His mother remains as poised as he had always known her to be—so painfully good at hiding her emotions and he wonders why he has become so guarded in his old age.
“The river will never accept you if you can’t accept your death,” she sighs. “Your life.”
Brigade snarls with confusion—with anger, with fear.
“What does that mean? How is that helpful?”
She raises a brow that would have left him cowering as a child. “Tell me one truth about your life.”
A wolf snaps at his back leg and he jerks it up, threateningly before it thuds down, leaving him to nearly dance in place with nerves. “I did the best I could,” he spits out, his face hardened, eyes overbright.
Pyxis’ lips quirk and she shrugs.
“Try then.”
But he doesn’t because he knows it wasn’t honest and when a wolf lunges toward him, he feels himself cry out. “I was afraid,” his voice breaks. “I was afraid that I wasn’t enough—that I couldn’t protect you and father and my siblings—so I didn’t even try.” He leaps forward into the water out of his terror as much as his instinct and he finds that it holds, that the water stills and hardens beneath his hooves.
The wolves do not follow yet, although he knows they have crept to the edge of the river.
Glancing up, he catches the sight of his mother.
“Keep going,” she urges, and he looks down to see the thrashing water and across to see how far he has to go. Would his truth be enough to hold him? Would his heart be strong enough to hold his truth? </p> <p class="brigade_name">BRIGADE</p> <p class="brigade_quote">when I was a man I thought it ended when I knew love's perfect ache <br>but my peace has always depended on all the ashes in my wake</p> </div> </div> </center>
Part of him is relieved to have finally met it. Relieved to have been able to relinquish his hold on life and the endless pain that it has caused him—the pain that he himself has caused. He has nothing good to show from his living. Nothing accomplished that he was particularly proud of, although he has yet to come to grips with the fierce little girl who is supposedly his own. He knows that he is a coward. He did not step into the war between his current home and his childhood one. He did not protect anyone.
He did not return to see the damage—to see what had become of his family.
And that cowardice is something he has done his best to run from ever since.
So now, in his death, it is no different. He feels the walls come up, protecting himself from the truth of his death—from the sharp agony that accompanies the memory of his father’s spirit animal tearing apart his throat. He feels it dull and then blinds himself to it and then—suddenly, there is nothing again.
Brigade sinks into it, deeper and deeper into the darkness and when he awakes, it is to the sound of the crashing water. He blinks slowly, feeling the spray of it against his face, and he is only partially surprised to find that the wet of blood on his throat remains. It stings and when he lifts himself to his feet again, he nearly sways with the pain. His vision doubles and spots on the edges but he doesn’t fall.
He just blinks as the rest of his surroundings come into focus. He realizes he’s near a massive waterfall, and he watches as the strange woman splits into two—coming up onto both shores as one half of herself. It doesn’t mean anything to him, and what happens next (her instructions) matter less. There is no one who would be waiting for him; no one who would lure him forward. He wasn’t even sure he wanted it.
He stands amongst the war-battered and victimized of Beqanna on this side of the river as a coward with his throat ripped out and feels nothing but shame. Still, his foolish heart prods him anyway and he lifts his head. His stormy grey eyes study the other side of the bank and feel a sharp pang when one of the figures comes into focus. He himself no longer has his antlers (his wings either) but they remain proud on her head. She holds it high like he always remembered in childhood, her blue eyes piercing as she watches.
Mother.
His throat goes dry and he takes a step forward out of instinct. A childish want to return home and let his mother make it better. Soothe his aches and tell him that it’s going to be okay. That he will be okay.
But more than his desire to greet her is his fear and his failure.
They are stones in his chest, a vice around his throat, and his feet stop as suddenly as they had started. He shakes his wild head, sending dreadlocks of mane around his jaw, and his eyes are no longer dry. “I can’t,” he wants to say—wants to explain—but she can’t hear him. “I’m so sorry,” he wants to promise, but his apologies don’t matter. They won’t give her a brave son, or a good one, or one worthy of her.
So instead he remains trapped in this strange limbo with his choices hung heavily on his shoulders.
Until he hears the sound of the wolves behind him—snapping their jaws.
Terror seizes him but it doesn’t stir him into action. Not yet.
Would death be worse the second time around? Would it sting more? His blood drips heavily onto the bank of the river and he looks across the river again to his mother who has stepped forward until the water nearly laps against her legs. “You’re braver than this, Brigade,” she says, and he hears it clearly—against the natural laws that say it should be drowned out by the roar of the waterfall.
He shakes his head again and hears the panting of the wolves closer now.
One lunges and sinks teeth into his leg.
<i>I’m not. I’m not.</i>
But greater than his fear is his sense of self-preservation and he takes a lunging step forward, leg dragging behind him as the wolf releases him. The second that his foot touches the water though, it churns violently against him and he yanks it back. He knows that there is no way that he will be able to withstand it.
Brigade swallows, his hair on edge, and he begins to pace. The wolves close in again but do not attack yet. He feels the hot air of their breath, the promise of it lingering, and looks up again, eyes rimmed with white, his lips pulled taut. His mother remains as poised as he had always known her to be—so painfully good at hiding her emotions and he wonders why he has become so guarded in his old age.
“The river will never accept you if you can’t accept your death,” she sighs. “Your life.”
Brigade snarls with confusion—with anger, with fear.
“What does that mean? How is that helpful?”
She raises a brow that would have left him cowering as a child. “Tell me one truth about your life.”
A wolf snaps at his back leg and he jerks it up, threateningly before it thuds down, leaving him to nearly dance in place with nerves. “I did the best I could,” he spits out, his face hardened, eyes overbright.
Pyxis’ lips quirk and she shrugs.
“Try then.”
But he doesn’t because he knows it wasn’t honest and when a wolf lunges toward him, he feels himself cry out. “I was afraid,” his voice breaks. “I was afraid that I wasn’t enough—that I couldn’t protect you and father and my siblings—so I didn’t even try.” He leaps forward into the water out of his terror as much as his instinct and he finds that it holds, that the water stills and hardens beneath his hooves.
The wolves do not follow yet, although he knows they have crept to the edge of the river.
Glancing up, he catches the sight of his mother.
“Keep going,” she urges, and he looks down to see the thrashing water and across to see how far he has to go. Would his truth be enough to hold him? Would his heart be strong enough to hold his truth? </p> <p class="brigade_name">BRIGADE</p> <p class="brigade_quote">when I was a man I thought it ended when I knew love's perfect ache <br>but my peace has always depended on all the ashes in my wake</p> </div> </div> </center>