"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
I didn't mean to get lost, but, well, here we are. And really, Mama ought to have been watching me better. She can turn her head any old direction, after all, so even though I'm much faster than her, I am pretty sure this isn't my fault. The whisper of moth wings tickles my ear, the little beasts are clinging tight to me since we left home and came here. I don't think they much care for the cold, but the feel of them crawling into my ears is hideous. I shake my head, but they only resettle again, crawling through the still-thin curls of my mane and tail.
I don't mind the cold quite as much, but there sure is a lot of it. There's a lot of here, too, and not enough there. The trees are so tall, they're like dark sentinels lining the wicked, winding, paths that I've been running down, and it doesn't seem like any of them are leading me out of the woods any time soon. It's not as easy to outrun trees as you might think, especially when the snow underfoot makes my hooves numb and dumb. It's like they forgot how to walk and now I have to learn all over again.
I stumble on nothing - my forefoot didn't feel the ground, but the rest of me does, landing with a squeal and a clatter in the crystalline snow. Snow should be softer. It scrapes my nose and red blood wells up like tears, dripping eagerly to the ground. I don't even bother to re-sort my tangled legs, but lay like an awkward ice sculpture, half upside-down and too complicated by far.
Sorry, Mothies. I'm sure to have crushed at least one.
It is always their thoughts that draw him out from the shadows. Like a predator he waits, stretching invisible fingers outwards from himself to grasp at whatever he could lay his grubby hands on - the juicier, the better. Their thoughts - rampant, wild, free - hit him harder than a drug; to know them so intimately, so privately, so secretly, the young colt simply could not find a better high.
Of course, he had ones that he preferred.
The ones with lackadaisical thoughts. The ones with daydreams (and even nightmares), with large hopes but little experience. Those were the ones that tasted the sweetest on his tongue and today, it is what he seeks out. Of course, they are never perfect. None of them could be, even if he told them that they were.
Molech cares little for the cold that bites at the deep teal and ivory of his flesh, finding that his jaw is set in a terribly clenched way where his mouth is but a thin line while his gold-barred ears are annoyingly tilted back. The cold made it harder to focus, harder to find what he is searching for. So when the rushed thoughts - so rushed! - of another flood his mind, his posture quickly changes. He becomes interested and curious, pressing forward through the familiar paths of his forest, attempting to find to whom these thoughts belonged. Molech is sifting through the flood that is the stream of consciousness, only keeping the information he found useful.
Especially that first thing he had heard. The thing about being lost. The single word had flared in his mind like that of a beacon, drawing him from the shadows like a moth to a flame.
He comes upon her just as she seems to have tripped onto herself, landing with a squeal and a thump that is enough to draw him from his reverie of her thoughts and into the real world, his lavender eyes clicking onto her slumped form. He pauses, halfway out of the trees that he had been walking through, half of him covered by the shadows that cast through the canopy.
She would have been as white as the snow she laid upon if the forest floor had not muddied the crunched ice beneath her. The gentlest touches of pink seem to blush in the softer parts of her body and something Molech first believes are snowflakes trickles around her head and tail. Her inward apology, however, quickly tells him that it is not crystals of ice that float around her, but tiny moths.
Molech snorts softly, alerting her to his presence if she hadn’t already noticed him. He slides out into the fullness of the sunlight, no longer beneath the comfort of the shade. The blood on her nose pools quite noticeably - bright red and streaking as it drips, drips, drips into soft patterns into the snow. He watches it for a moment, his forked tongue slithering forward to taste the metallic sting of it on the air, before flicking it back into his golden mouth.
I can't tell if the moths care that some of their number met their fate beneath my withers. They don't seem bothered, but of course I can't talk to them at all. They aren't my friends, they just don't go away. Mama has flowers in her ribbon-candy mane, and I got moths, not that I mind but I did meet a mare who hated moths so much she couldn't even look at me. I suppose that should have bothered me, but it was pretty funny watching her run when I, er, accidentally got too close, and Mama never tried to stop me, because honestly. Who's afraid of such a stupid thing like moths? They crush so easily, look:
A moth knocked loose from my forelock crawls in the snow looking just about as forlorn as something with compound eyes and no other facial features worth mentioning can look. It doesn't even have the decency to crunch when my teeth close on top of it, and the only flavor is the dust of its broken, pale green wings but there isn't time to think about it, not when a vision in green and gold melts out of the trees. My forehead presses into the muddy snow as I turn to get a better look at him, walking on the ceiling like a bat, wings pulled close for weaving through the trees, and that subtle smile on his lips.
Well, it's an upside-down frown, I know that, but I flash my biggest grin at him anyway - it's mostly blood-bright gums and the little nubs of my baby teeth.
Wooooooulllllllld'youuuuuuuu liiiiiiiiiiiike hhhhhheeeeeeeelllllllp wiiiiii'thaaaaaat? And, okay, yeah, I'm exaggerating a little, but could this guy talk any slower? I can barely understand him, it's like he's got a mouthful of mud.
"WouldIlikehelpwithwhat?"
I've been told I talk too fast, but I can't say as I've ever noticed, myself. Usually, everybody else talks so slow, like, what's even the point of talking if you're gonna take ten years just to say hi? I remain nonchalant. This is fine. My forelegs, crossed over one another in the air where I've rolled up and lodged against the bole of a damp-barked white oak, come apart easily and fall into a smart curl against my chest. They are not actually the problem. It's my traitorous right hind the has gotten tangled into the dormant ivy vines creeping up the tree's trunk and I kick out with it several times in quick succession but only manage to dent the hard sponge of the bark. I stop and exhale sharply into the frigid air, pausing to watch the cloud of my breath before turning the cherry-red eyes back to him
Molech is used to the sometimes overrun feeling he can get from filtering through too many thoughts at once. This time, however, he is blatantly reminded of when he had attempted to read his twin sister’s thoughts and a sour expression finds his handsome face. Normally he is able to keep a semblance of calm exceptionally well (he wouldn’t want anyone to know his real thoughts, of course), but he can only hold it at bay for so long. This girl’s thoughts are quick in succession and barely leaves him time to interpret them. His patience that he once had is already gone.
The teal and white colt bares his teeth, his ears falling into his mane simultaneously. That terribly black forked tongue emerges as his golden mouth opens, flickering angrily. “Stop that,” he hisses, not caring that the charming facade that he normally aims to create has fallen away and that bitterness has replaced it. Of course she would have no idea what he was referring to, but the colt didn’t care. Some were not worth attempting to trick. At that moment is when she bites down on one of the feathery things without so much as a thought (not that he could tell with her), and his angry expression softens just enough so that his mouth closes around his teeth and tongue. Curious.
She hasn’t attempted to move yet, merely looking up (down?) at him with her exceptionally red eyes that match the bloodiness of her gums and teeth. He huffs, squinting slightly so that his dark teal eyelids fall around the lavender of his eyes. Her actions are oddly reminiscent of his mother - that careless way she holds herself, confident and reckless. He licks his lips - ones like these were not preened for his type of torture and he quickly concedes to giving up any charade he might have been planning for her.
He is not surprised when her speaking voice is just as fast as her thoughts. If anything, it’s a bit slower and somewhat easier to understand.
Help with what? He looks at her incredulously, his gaze flickering downwards as his head lowers just a bit, as if trying to meet her eye level. Molech glances at her hind leg that has gotten all sorts of wrapped up in the vines, his own thoughts attempting to infiltrate the stage that hers have taken up in his mind. She accepts help - quickly, of course - and though his head is already beginning to throb with her constant and rampant thoughts, there is a hum of satisfaction in his throat.
Perhaps she is not the willowy and soft and gentle creatures he preferred, but there is an opportunity here - a learning experience that could still benefit him in some way.
“What’s in it for me? If I help you?” His eyes flicker back to her, a dark mischievous glint in those pale purple irises. The sky above the forest churns gray with clouds that threaten to spill more frozen crystals onto the snow that she lies upon. He could easily leave her here. With all those fast-paced thoughts, he just might.
He seems mad, the frustration drifts over his face like a cloud over the sun, inch by excruciating inch, and honestly I have no idea what he's talking about because I haven't moved except to kick the tree. Maybe he means 'Don't kick the tree,' and I can't help but wonder if maybe he has some affinity for the things, but that is not a trait that we share. As far as I can tell, the trees are just tall and quiet and frankly I don't think they even have brains. How could they, they are so impossibly slow, slow as the red arches of Loess that never-ever-ever-ever-ever move. Like, ever. Dull as rocks, that's trees, but maybe this guy's slow like the trees, maybe he gets them.
Who knows, there's dumber magic than that out there. Probably.
He gets there eventually, though, and as much as I'd like to roll my eyes at him, I'm much too polite for that. It's really not his fault that it takes him so long to get my meaning, not if he was born with a tree-brain, and I do actually need help so I can't afford to scare him off by being too rude. I don't want to confuse him too much, either, though. I try to slow down - a little - I don't think I can speak as slowly as it would require for a real tree to know what I was talking about but hopefully, he's got a little more horse than wood in his skull.
"Do.You.Like.Moths? I.Got.Lotsa.Moths." Again, an encouraging grin. You gotta be friendly with people like this, let them know it's okay to take the time they need to understand. I suppose life is probably hard for someone like him, "Orrr.We.Could.Be.Best.Friends. You.Wanna.Be.Best.Friends? Forever?"
That's probably a better deal for him than for me, I could really help a guy like this out, but that's okay. I don't mind being a little philanthropic, 'specially if it gets my foot outta this ivy.
Her thoughts are spewing from her mind like vomit, ravaging his mind in ways he hates that he can’t control. They are fluid and one right after the other, leaving him to close his eyes tightly and to inhale deeply in attempts to merely remain in her presence. One part of her monologue - thought it is quick and nearly unable to understand - reaches him enough to where his lavender eyes flash to hers and his lips pull back from his teeth, that terrible black forked tongue sliding from between them. I do not speak for the trees, he seethes into her mind without a thought, blatant and intrusive. He doesn’t even care for the glamor he typically adds to his telepathy - that charm and ease that he takes pride in - because he can’t be bothered at this point. He’s not even sure it would have mattered to her, in this case. His face matches that undeniable tone of his thoughts into her mind - angry and bitter, all those sharp angles that are only made more prominent by the single ivory stripe of a blaze across the forefront of his deep green face, set aflame by those pale purple eyes that burn with something much more violent.
That deep-set rage on his handsome face is offset by the confused furrow of his brow, a shadow casting across his eyes as his golden forelock tangles into his gaze. “I don’t,” he says aloud, his voice thin, “care for moths.” He wonders if this would offend her and there is an ease in the angles of his face as he thinks it might. But that same hardness quickly returns, darkness somehow brooding in those pale eyes.
“Forever is a long time,” Molech mentions to her casually, his gaze flickering to her leg that is still twisted in the dark green of the vines, contemplating how long she would lie here until hunger or a predator got to her. He swallows, tilting his head slightly as if considering her offer. “You make it sound as if I need you,” the colt ponders, stepping ever closer to her with that forked tongue tasting the air, all ice and moth wings. “I assure you that I don’t.”
His voice is final, lifting his head with a sharp jerk away from her and then with a twitch of his golden nostrils. “It’s you who needs me, really. ” he pauses suddenly, relishing in the idea that even though she hadn’t really wanted him, that he is still needed by her nonetheless. “Let’s just say you owe me a favor,” he mentions to her casually with a roll of his shoulders, swiftly adding to her mind: and we’ll be the best of friends.
With a sudden movement, the tri-colored stallion steps forward to snap the vines tangled around her ankles with his teeth.
Molech steps back fluidly, careful to stay far from the swing of her hooves, the ivy torn and ripped as it dangles from the somewhat smile of his lips. He spits the vine from his mouth, before jerking his head in her direction with a tip of his chin upwards. “What’s your name, moth-girl?”
The thoughts aren’t mine, and, at first, I wonder if they aren’t stray thoughts from that pretty mare that’s taken over Sylva. She always seems to have some vagrant hallucination hanging around, although I don’t think I’ve ever heard them before now. Really, though, you would think with that shaft of wood through her chest that if anyone speaks for the trees, it would be her, so I guess it’s probably not one of her thoughts following me. No, I think, it’s much more likely to be my new friend. The change of expression over his face is excruciating in its slowness, the handsome falls away like an avalanche, leaving ravaged, angry edges that cut the cold air like ice. He professes not to care for moths, or to need me, and I scoff at both assertions. Seems to me that he doesn't do very much at all.
But he does snap the vines, and that’s the most important thing. Friends helping friends, y’know? I stay prone a moment longer, testing the formerly trapped ankle, and then roll up onto my belly in the snow while my demon-boy steps away, his indolent mind-voice drawling slow across my brain like lazy snowflakes drifting across the grey sky. I think he means it to sound threatening, but honestly, this all sounds great and I bounce up to my feet again, hobbling slightly when a rush of pins and needles swallows one hoof too-long caught in ivy. The sensation soon fades and I fill up the space he tries to place between us before he has the opportunity to protest. The moths still living flutter in my wake, seeking the warm curls of my mane and tail while I stretch up onto my toes to press my bloodied nose to his cheek.
"My.Name.Is.Wight!" I manage to remember to say this slowly for him, but my grip on that control fades quickly as the thoughts roll from my tongue, "AndTheseAreMyMoths. Theydon'thavenamestheyarejustmoths."
The flurry of moths that cling to her haphazardly in the wake of her movement draw his lavender eyes away from her for a moment. When his eyes fall away from her she uses that as an opportunity to leap into the space he had purposely made, snorting sharply with surprise at her uprupt closeness. Molech throws his head up and away from her, his bright gaze flashing back to her with apparent dislike sparkling in the purple of his irises. She leaves a rust colored stain on the deep green of his cheek, his teeth flashing to snap dully at the white of her face - he doesn’t care if he makes contact (she’ll be too fast for him anyway), but the gesture will make his point anyway.
Molech’s gold-tipped ears are flicked backward, contemplation muddying his handsome face. A single moth flutters closer to him, its velvet-soft wings brushing against the deep goldenrod of his muzzle. His nose twitches slightly at the sensation but ultimately decides to champ his teeth idly to get the insect to return back to its keeper, bumping into him one more time before blindly floating back towards his new friend.
“Wight,” he repeats, committing the name to memory with a gentle rise of one of his brows. “I’m Molech.” He pauses, surveying her once again with a curious tilt of his head. He smacks his lips together in a sort of tsking sound before pursing them slightly. “If they’re yours, shouldn’t you name them?”
