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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Jamie -- Year 213

    QOTY

    “"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
    #1

    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




    Wishbone
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