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  • Beqanna


    Jamie -- Year 213


    “"I don’t know how to do this,” she says. What she actually means is I’m sorry, but she doesn’t know how to apologize either." --Titanya, written by Mirage

    [private]  saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to; wishbone

    that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried

    The shadows chase him today, trailing off of him like a cloak that whips around every corner. They’re driven by something dark, something brooding, and he is careful to not look too closely at it—unsure about how to try and tackle something that feels endless and yawning and impossible. It would trap him, he knows. Swallow him whole if he turned his full attention toward it. It would be impossible to avoid the darkness that he has helped banish from Beqanna but then now lives inside of him, churning and alive.

    He scowls as he walks, flinging his magic out in front of him to elongate the darkness but unable to keep the sun from shining fully on him. It is not yet twilight yet and the afternoon light peeks through, beating down through his magic, wearing a hole steadily through his power to find him. It is painful, he thinks, in a way that the day used to be a reprieve that he reveled in. Now it is as cursed as the night used to be.

    Laughing under his breath, not immune to the humor of his life, he angles his path to take him closer to the trees and then further into the belly of the forest. He had always preferred these trees, even in the years before everything, but they are a sanctuary now. The sun does not break fully through the trees of it and the cool shadows dapple across his golden hide, luring him further and further into its embrace.

    He gladly answers its call, plunging further and further into shadows as his own companion races after him, hopping from stretched darkness to the next, diving into it like a pool of water and leaping out. His fury banks softly, replaced with a desperate, sharp-edged need to outrun it, and without thinking, his pace increases its clip. He stretches out into a run, legs eating up the earth until he doesn’t feel his magic at all, or his sorrow, or his guilt—all he feels is the burning of his muscles and the salt of his sweat.

    so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried

    it's a mystery to me
    we have a greed with which we have agreed. you think you have to want more than you need; until you have it all you won't be free. and when you think more than you want, your thoughts begin to bleed.
    Wishbone cannot shake the anger that clings to her. She had stood at the smooth earth where Svedka had disappeared, waiting for Beqanna (the underworld, rather) to spit back what it had taken from her. When she realized the sun would not bring her brother with it, her rage had sparked in her core. And there it simmers, a constant fire that turns her insides hot and drags the heat onto the tip of her tongue. It’s fierce anger, with a strength that reminds Wishbone of her days in the Afterlife.

    She had worn a path into the Afterlife’s gray soil, pacing next to the line of Life and Death. This time, Wishbone can take her emotions out in much more realistic ways — she has already swum in the ocean until her body tires, ran through Tephra until her lungs screamed, considered the consequences of jumping from the volcano. Her conversation with Mazikeen had helped lessen the heat of her anger for a day, but the following day Wishbone wakes up just as restless as the day before.

    So she leaves Tephra, traveling south to the common lands. And once she reaches the Forest, she plunges herself into its darkness. Wishbone knows there is less traffic in the Forest, and perhaps this will minimize the number of unsuspecting individuals that might receive her fury. The shadows feel cool against her skin, brushing the heat of anger off her purple flanks, and Wishbone momentarily closes her eyes at the sensation. At the sound of racing hooves, her glowing amber eyes fly open again.

    It feels dangerous to race through the thick woods, and the pangare knows danger is precisely what she needs. Tossing her head, Wishbone pushes herself into a sprint, winding through the trees to reach the side of whoever was running nearby. The shadows make the stranger speckled, and they are moving so quickly that an entire world appears within the shadows on the backdrop of his skin. The sprint eats at a portion of her aggression, giving her something else to focus on. And Wishbone grits her teeth, matching the stranger’s strides and pushing her athleticism until he decides to slow down.
    credit to eliza of adoxography.


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