"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
02-24-2021, 09:31 PM (This post was last modified: 03-02-2021, 07:39 PM by Sparrow.)
You're supposed to be able to lose yourself in this forest. The prospect of it sounds less terrifying than it does intriguing at this point in my life. The problem with becoming lost when you're alone, of course, is that it doesn't really matter. Wherever you are, you're already by yourself.
Usually I like being alone. Once upon a time I was never by myself. I was the quietly adored and well raised daughter of a king who wasn't quite sure what to do with his motherless child. I was happy in a way that would be difficult to replicate as an adult.
As most things do, it didn't last. Over time family members disappeared or died, and I lingered.
When I let myself reminisce, it's my father I miss most of all. He wasn't particularly creative or "fun" in that sense of the word. (I would honestly not be surprised if he simply glanced around and named me after the first thing he saw. In which case I should be grateful he didn't see a twig or a rock or something.) But he was mine and he loved me in a world of craziness, which made him infinitely special. He indulged my goofy sense of humor and my incessant chatter and he never made me feel less than.
When he and the rest faded away, I grieved, but I also discovered the parts of me that were hidden amongst the everyday chatter. Those discoveries are what gave me reason enough to get up and move on. I learned that I liked the silence. I learned that being by myself made me more observant and willing to take risks. If I fucked it up, who was there to disappoint? Only myself, and my standards were to simply keep going. I learned that I was cliche enough to want to love and be loved but skeptical enough to avoid most contact that might make it possible.
I'd like to pretend that's what compels me toward the sparser parts of this forest now. Companionship.
(It's fun to pretend.)
The land has changed around me over the years but I've learned bits of it well enough to navigate in the darkness that now seems to be the new normal. I concentrate on putting one hoof down at a time and make my way to a small mossy clearing. The sort of place that would lend itself to romance once upon a time. Now it feels like a place that's too exposed to whatever goes bump in the night.
It's probably stupid to choose this spot, but I choose it anyways, already worn out from pretending the dozens of ways a conversation with my first live encounter in ages will go. I decided I have a 50/50 shot of garnering a discussion, simply based on being the idiot with the blazing white mane and tail standing by herself just begging to be attacked or eaten.
At this point, I'm committed. I'll take what I am given.
Days and nights now blend together, a timeless muddle that has proven so easy to grow lost in. The pewter stallion had never been particularly good at differentiating the days, and now they have become hopelessly confused. In the end, it hardly matters. Not when one’s life is an endless existence of regret and forgetfulness. The ceaseless nights are now broken only by sleep and hunting, the trill of Wren’s subdued song his only companion.
It had been easy to grow ever more feral in the face of this new world. With hunt or be hunted the wild mantra of these lawless times, Ion had given in more freely than he believed possible. Or perhaps, it is only because he had been taught to believe not so very long ago. Whatever the case, he has found the body of the predator to be vastly more comfortable. And vastly safer when squared against the beasts now shambling through his trees.
The branches tangling amidst the naked canopy are an efficient pathway. The leaves that had once budded out had long since dried and fallen, the fallow grounds beneath cushioned only by their dead brethren. He blends easily with the pitch of the night, Wren silent and still where he clings to the coarse fur of Ion’s spine.
It is only when the panther spies a figure below that he pauses. His yellow eyes are nearly swallowed by the pupils that have expanded to find light as he peers at the stranger. It is not often others venture this deep anymore. Not when the slithering beasts abound so freely in this darkened haven. Which means this stranger is either very brave, or very foolish.
It would have been simple enough to move on with her unaware of ever having been in his presence. But curiosity (and perhaps more than a small amount of loneliness) stays his paws. After a silent, thoughtful moment, Ion moves. He is swift and agile as he slips through the lowest branches of the canopy to leap to the damp forest floor. Wren flutters away in the sudden movement, chirping with irritation before settling between Ion’s shoulder blades once again when he has found purchase on the slick year-old leaves.
He does not shift immediately, instead eyeing the silver-haired mare curiously, wondering how she might react to the large predator appearing so suddenly before her.
ion
in the empty of the grave, only distant dreams remain
02-26-2021, 05:49 PM (This post was last modified: 03-02-2021, 07:40 PM by Sparrow.)
I sometimes used to wonder, absently, how I might handle myself during a crisis. I think most horses who haven't lived through one do. We like to believe we'll be brave or noble or quick-witted. It turns out, I am none of those things.
The appearance of a large, muscled black cat sends my mind into a free fall. And as chance would have it, I don't respond with fight or flight. I simply freeze, terror rising so that my eyes widen and I feel like I’m choking, a slightly strangled noise escaping from my throat. In my head, I am running far away. In reality not so much.
Good to know a sarcastic voice says from somewhere deep in my brain. Wouldn’t want to be one of those pesky brave idiots.
No, instead I’m cringing in terror. My chest heaves with the effort to keep breathing and my legs shake, almost imperceptibly. I’m not even sure I could fight back if he springs.
Fucking hell, if this is how I die I am going to be so pissed. I could have stayed in my usual haunts, but no, I had to try and be adventurous. Who enters a world of monsters and ghosts and dies because they are prey?
Suddenly my eyes catch movement and fall on a tiny creature nestled on the predator (panther, puma... do I know? does it matter?) and my mouth falls open to let dozens of useless words fall out.
"D-d'you you know you have a bird, just there, on your back? I mean, I guess, I don't know why I'm telling you that. I don't even know if you understand. If you do, could you maybe not keep me in suspense... I always sort of hoped when I died it would be quick?"
Rambling. Ah yes, rambling to my apparently imminent death. I'd always considered becoming a diplomat in my father's kingdom but I never dreamt my first attempts at negotiation would come at the expense of my life and would be so apt to fail.
If Ion had expected anything, it was most certainly not frozen terror followed by a deluge of nearly incomprehensible words. Wren lets out a small trill before fluffing his feathers and settling deeper into Ion’s fur. The panther blinks at her a few times before opening his jaws, ivory teeth gleaming as he lets out a chuff that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
With a sudden shake of his head, the black cat begins to morph, body growing as bones crack and stretch. Wren lets out an indignant sound, but doesn’t move. Moments later, a blue roan stallion is standing in place of the panther, brown gaze speculative as he eyes the mare before him. In his equine sight, she has become little more than a shadow. Moments later, feline eyes settle into the equine body so he might see her more clearly.
“If you were wishing for a quick death,” Ion replies (despite the obviously rhetorical nature of the question), voice gruff with disuse, “you have come to the wrong place.”
Pacing forward, he slowly circles the dark mare, eyeing her silvery locks and decidedly unimposing form. He is perfectly well aware looks can be wildly deceiving, but given her reaction to his sudden appearance, he is forced to wonder if she has no abilities that might have aided her here. After all, if he had been a monster, she would almost certainly be gurgling on her own blood rather than dealing with the aftermath of imagining certain death.
“Is that why you came here?” he continues after a moment, gaze now curious as he comes to a halt before her once more. “To commit suicide by fang?”
ion
in the empty of the grave, only distant dreams remain
03-02-2021, 08:52 PM (This post was last modified: 03-02-2021, 08:55 PM by Sparrow.)
Now that I’ve established I am nobody’s hero (least of all my own) and there’s no way my muscles are going to respond to any orders for the immediate future, I’m actually less terrified. It’s not like I’m looking forward to a bloody end but since there’s very little I can do, I do exactly that. My breathing slows from a rapid hyperventilation to a shuddering deep breath that is getting closer to my normal resting rate. I twitch my tail just slightly, the strands catching around my fetlocks. I move my gaze from the bird to the yellow eyes of the predator, who has suddenly started making a noise that sounds strangely like laughter.
He hasn’t pounced. Why hasn’t he pounced?
Its amusement morphs into sickening cracks and creaks as the black cat lengthens and grows. Morbid curiosity keeps my eyes open as a flurry of thoughts, this time unspoken, dart through my mind.
Maybe the goal is to terrify me to death. If the first attempt didn’t work, I’m not sure this one will. What’s more terrifying than a big cat? Oh wait. I don’t want to know that. Gods, please don’t let me find out what’s more terrifying than a big cat. Maybe some other day? And what about the bird?!
In what feels like both a lifetime and a mere moment, a blue roan stallion of my height is standing in front of me speaking words I don’t immediately catch. Confronted by the very corporeal, very male equine, I am suddenly extremely grateful that my slightly hysterical thoughts are my own. Unless, of course, he’s a mind reader in which case now would be the second-best time to make my escape. I might even be able to manage this one.
My brain and body slowly releases me from my frozen terror and leaves me with the unwelcome emotions of embarrassment and vulnerability. My dark brown eyes widen as he approaches and circles, my ears flicking back to follow the progress of his inspection. I wonder what he is looking for. Some quality I am probably lacking?
Does he think I’m pretty?
This is, hands down, the weirdest day of my life.
He speaks again and, now fully in control of my faculties, I catch every word. I prick my silver tipped ears forward and make what I hope is only a mildly sheepish smile.
“ Uh, well, no. Believe it or not, I came here for a change of pace.” I give him an appraising look, not minding his company so much now that imminent death isn’t on the table. Plus, there is something rather attractive about him. Maybe his little friend helps his appeal.
“I suppose I should thank you for that, then. This has certainly been a novel experience.” I grin a little, attempting to temper the sarcasm. “Since it looks like you’re not going to rip me to shreds, feel like giving me your name? Or an explanation for your unorthodox introduction? Do you terrify everyone you meet or just the special ones?”
Having completed his impromptu inspection, Ion shifts his gaze to her dark features as he settles in front of her once more. She appears to relax quite swiftly now that it has become clear his intention is not to make her his next meal. It’s an amusing thought, inspiring him to wonder if that would be considered cannibalism. He’d never been tempted to snack on equine flesh, even in his darkest imaginations. There is a darkness to that thought that even he cannot quite resolve.
Despite all appearances to the contrary, Ion is not a cruel man by nature. He had been born of loving parents in a closely knit family. And even in their grief over his still-born twin, they had always been good and attentive parents. It is not their fault that he had lived and Atom had died. Nor was it their fault that guilt had eaten him alive at the thought that he should have been the one to die instead.
He suspects Atom had known how guilt had become an acid in his heart. Suspects it is why he had sent Wren to him. Still, even knowing what he does, he can’t seem to change his own trajectory.
He should feel guilty now for the fear he inspired in her, but perhaps that acid had finally eaten through his heart entirely. Because as he stares at her, yellow eyes burning, it is not guilt he feels.
Her admission that she had come here for a change of pace causes one equine brow to raise in question. It gives him cause to wonder just what kind of pace she’d had before if she had imagined this was the kind she wished for, but he does not put those thoughts to words. He’s not certain they are well enough acquainted yet for such personal musings.
The sarcasm in her next words brings a slight grin to his lips, unable to repress his amusement at her reproach. As far as unorthodox went, he’s fairly certain that had been a rather tame introduction. Proof then that she must have lived a very sheltered life indeed. And answer to the question of whether she was brave or foolish - though perhaps naive would be the better word in this case.
“Ion,” he answers simply, before shrugging his shoulders noncommittally, causing Wren to chirp huffily. “It’s a first, I’ll admit. I’m still deciding if there should be a second.” His amusement deepens as his gaze turns sardonic. “What do you think?”
ion
in the empty of the grave, only distant dreams remain
