"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
these things the ancient maidens whirl on
with rushing thread of brazen spindles.
How rarely she strays from the shores of Ischia, from the warm huddle of her mother and sisters, from the familiar glow of their collective magic.
But she is such a tender-hearted thing, Neuna, arguably the softest of the three daughters. Still she mourns the loss of the father, though it has been years now since they left him in Pangea and found their home beside the sea. Sometimes she sends the shadow wolf to find him because she does not dare return to Pangea herself and the wolf (no longer a pup just as she is no longer a filly) comes back to report that the father is not what she remembers him to be. The wolf tells her there is nothing left in Pangea worth her missing, her grief, but Neuna is a thing built of love, for love, and her capacity for mourning is great. She will never stop missing her father, even if there is nothing left worth missing.
She knows she will not find him by the river, but she does not dare return to Pangea. (She has not asked why her mother spirited them away from there because she does not wish to cause her mother any undue pain, you see, not because she thinks her mother would not tell her the truth.)
The wolf moves easily through the shadows up ahead, head down, admonishing her for this colossal waste of time. (A trip to the river! For what! Ischia is surrounded by water!) But Neuna is such a brutally kind thing and she grins, reminds the wolf that it could have stayed behind, and they walk the rest of the way to the river’s edge in silence.
“You’re angry,” she says out loud to the wolf when they arrive but the wolf does not reply, merely slinks away into the shadows and she watches it with a rueful smile. This thing was built by her father, it does not know how to be kind. She, too, was built by her father but her mother had equal influence.
It is when she finally turns her gaze away from the wolf, which has blended into the shadows by now, that she realizes she is not alone at the water’s edge. She blinks at the stranger, haloed as he is in white light as they all are (something wrong with the eyes rather than anything wrong with him), and smiles. “Oh, hello,” she murmurs, “I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”
I tried to sell my soul last night Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
He had grown restless in the expanse of red rock and prickly plants he still refuses to call home, even to himself.The river is little better, but it is different. He already knows a trek through his old haunts would not be what settled the restlessness he feels now. He knows there is damned little that truly could, though that does not keep him from being irritated by it.
There is a grittiness to his pale features as he glares at the rushing water. He notices her approach though. She would be impossible not to notice. Stepping back, he does his best to sink into the shadows of the trees behind him. Undoubtedly idiotic, consider just how well his near-white coat does not blend with darkness. But still he tries, if only to avoid the levity he can already see in her features.
There is an undeniable sweetness to her. Once, he might have been foolish enough to try seducing her, but he had learned long ago that creatures like her expect something he could never hope to give. He is not a man made for gentleness or love. He could never give it, no matter how much they might wish him to. And so he had learned to stick with only those who could understand simple lust. Those who could understand the harshness of reality. Those who do not mind his cutting edges.
The words that peal softly into the air first (‘You’re angry.’) cause his ears to pin as his gaze darkens. It takes him a moment to realize she is not in fact speaking to him. But when she turns and finally notices him, his features are still blackened by a fierce scowl.
If he were a kinder man, he might have greeted the smile and soft words with something less harsh. But he is not capable of tempering his own brutality, not even for innocence like hers. “Doesn’t fucking matter,” he growls, his dark eyes cutting to her. “What the hell would you do if I said yes anyway?”
these things the ancient maidens whirl on
with rushing thread of brazen spindles.
It is not that she is innocent, Neuna.
Nor is she particularly naive.
This is not why she does not immediately notice the darkness in his expression.
It is because he is ringed in such a brilliant light that it takes several seconds for her to get a clear look at his face at all.
It is not until he speaks, his tone scathing, that she finally gets a good read on his mood. (Or, perhaps, it is not a mood but his personality.)
If she were innocent or naive or a soft, fragile thing, she would have shrunk in the face of his fury. But she just goes on looking at him, smiling patiently still. (But she can feel the brilliant glow of love in the center of her chest begin to dim, little by little, like it is a physical thing.)
Her father is a cruel thing, too, even if his cruelty is not born of this kind of disparaging hatred. She goes on studying him a beat longer, considering his question. She makes no attempt to move any closer but she also makes no effort to remove herself from his space. He had not asked her to leave.
If he had said yes?
“I’d have begged your pardon and found someplace else to quench my thirst,” she says and nods, pleased with her answer. She can practically hear the wolf in the shadows roll its eyes. (The wolf is fond of this stallion’s cutting tone and harsh language and tells her as much, tells her that she could learn a thing or two from him but she does not listen. She is a thing built of love, not hate.)
She turns her gaze to the water then, as if that is the end of it. She takes a step closer to the water’s edge and then stops short, casting those white eyes back to him then, her brow furrowing softly.
“And it does matter,” she tells him. “I think it matters. You deserve your peace just as much as anyone else.”
I tried to sell my soul last night Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
There is a sick sort of pleasure in watching gentle things cower from him. And yet, despite her gentleness, she does not cower. With the scowl etching deeper lines into his hard features, he stares at her. If she could feel such things, his displeasure would be radiating from him in heavy waves, fueled by the discontent in his heart. Undoubtedly a thing as shriveled as hers is full.
Pale wings ruffling irritably, he shifts backwards. He would have backed deeper into the tree were his ass not already pressed against the trunk. Just his rotten luck.
He would have scoffed to know she envisioned him haloed by light. There is nothing light within him, nothing radiant or pure or beautiful. There is only the ugliness of his anger and bitterness and despair. All things that have never and would never fill the bottomless, hollow well inside his chest.
Gritting his teeth, Ashhal snorts his derision at her thoughtful reply. It screams of kindness, and Ashhal has never responded well to kindness. “Bullshit,” he mutters, black eyes cutting across her to the water as she steps towards it. He fully expects her to leave him then. To let him wallow in his own misery, harsh words trapped in his throat.
But then she turns back to him, something like concern pinching her blushed features. Her words surprise him - enough that a short bark of unpleasant laughter escapes his lips. He thinks she truly believes what she says, but he sure as hell isn’t one for fairy tales. “I haven’t known any fucking peace in over a century,” he bites out sharply in response, eyes glittering as he stares at her. “Take you goddamned nonsense and spew to someone who might actually believe it.”
these things the ancient maidens whirl on
with rushing thread of brazen spindles.
She can feel the heart begin to wilt in her chest.
(She is a thing that thrives on love, you see, and hatred works only to weaken her. Soon, she will be left a gasping thing, desperate for the glow of love. But for now she does not have the sense to remove herself from the situation, because she believes so fiercely in love that it has blinded her to the reality of hatred.)
She looks at him a long time, the white eyes unmoving as she considers him.
He had not asked her to leave in the beginning but this must be an invitation to get lost.
And yet, she stays.
Even as the heart begins to wilt in her chest in the face of his unrelenting hate, his anger, his darkness.
She draws in a long breath but this does absolutely nothing to revive the heart. Even the wolf in the shadows is not on her side. She is alone here by the river but, for the moment, she just goes on looking at him.
“There’s a difference,” she says and she says it slowly, experimentally, as if prepared for him to sink his teeth into her throat. She does not turn to face him, though. No, she is still angled toward the water, even with her head turned to look at him.
“There’s a difference between deserving peace and not knowing it,” she points out and then rolls her slender, pearlescent shoulders. And then something else occurs to her and she glances between the wolf lurking in the shadows and this stranger’s face before she settles on the stranger’s face and stays there.
“Why are you so angry with me?” she asks, head tilted, “you don’t even know me.” Still, she does not turn to face him fully.
“ could have told me to leave, but you didn’t… but it seems you’re angry at me like it’s my fault for not leaving.”
I tried to sell my soul last night Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
There is a part of him that had wanted her to stay. It had not been anything good or decent in him that had prevented him from telling her in no uncertain terms to leave. No, it had been the dark and twisted parts of him that prevented those words from leaving his lips. They would have been harsh and unkind, but it would have been far kinder than allowing the door to remain propped open.
Instead an awful part of him has grown to thrive on the bitterness and heartache of his existence. A part of him couldn’t help but want to force others to suffer the same. It’s one of the reasons he finds so little joy in anything beyond fighting. Even with the women, it has simply become more of the same. One release or the other, it hardly matters. It is the only thing he has to live for in this endless, pitiless existence of his.
He had almost been different, when his memories had stolen. And when they had returned, he’d felt something for a while. But it had been snuffed out as easily as a candle. Smothered by the realization that nothing had changed.
For a time, he had thought he could love. But he had been wrong. So very wrong.
So he snaps at this young girl who most certainly does not deserve it. He drags her into the darkness he is drowning beneath, because that is what he has always done to anyone who dared throw him a lifeline. He snorts at her words - at the confidence and sincerity in them.
“And how the fuck do you know what I deserve?” he bites back, unable to help himself. His gaze is glittering and angry, just like she accuses him of. He is taken aback by her question, though it does nothing to quell anger. He opens his mouth to tell her to fuck off as she had so gently invited him to do, but something stops him. He had squashed anything that might have once been good in him, shoving it into the furthest reaches of his soul, so it is not that which stays his tongue. But a part of him wants her to know, to stamp out the naivety she wears so boldly. Sometimes there is no saving the pitiful creatures like him. So, finally, he snaps back, “Because you look at me and think you can change me.” Sucking in a breath, he pauses before the low rumble of his harsh voice rings out again. “And I’m so fucking sick of everyone wanting me to change.”
these things the ancient maidens whirl on
with rushing thread of brazen spindles.
How the heart wilts in the cage of her chest. The longer she stands there, the weaker it gets.
(Could it kill her? His hatred? If she stayed long enough, could it drain the life right out of her?)
But she goes on standing there, studying him. And she is young and she does not understand this specific kind of anger, but she was built for life and for love and constructed to dictate both. She drags in a shaky breath when he speaks, barks, snaps. She does not flinch, only watches, and thinks how strange it is that something so full of darkness should be ringed in so much light.
(She still does not understand that the haloes of light that surround every creature in the world is something wrong with her eyes and not anything at all to do with the creature itself.)
She rolls one slim shoulder in response to his question, considering it only briefly before answering. “It’s not only you, it’s everyone.” She does not bother asking if he agrees, because she suspects she already knows what his answer will be.
His accusation catches her off-guard. She blinks once, surprised, and finally turns away from the river to face him. (And still, the heart wilts.)
She tilts her pale head, her brow dark with concentration as she studies him there. He has himself wedged against a tree, as if she is anything worth shying away from. (Perhaps she is.) She does not smile now, just looks at him a long moment with those white eyes before she finally draws in a breath and speaks.
“Why should I want to change you?” she asks, the question genuine. “I only suggested that you deserve peace as much as anyone else and that it’s worth saying so.” She smiles then, just barely.
I tried to sell my soul last night Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
He doesn’t know his bitter anger weakens her. Of course, even if he had known, it would not have stopped him. There is too much of it inside him, crowding out everything else that might have tried to rise. But even before it had swelled to such monstrous proportions, he had not been kind or forgiving. Even then, he’d had little pity to give.
Even his love is a tainted, festering thing. Something no one should want or seek. As tiny and pitted and shriveled as it is, it lies buried far too deep beneath the swells of black despair to ever be uncovered. She would have to dig very deep indeed to find it. Only one creature had ever dug that deep, and he has no doubt she regretted it.
It’s not only you, it’s everyone, she says, and something inside him snaps. His lips curl into a sneer and he steps aggressively forward, wings lifting from his sides. “What an arrogant fucking thing to say.”
She has turned to him now, confusion and determination in her strange white gaze. He stalks forward, erasing the distance between them in a few easy strides. She is not small or cowering, but still he looms, caught in the swells of his own bleak fury. His own arrogance, so like the one he had accused her of.
He is close now, crowding her, dark eyes fixed on her gentle white ones. “The only way I will ever find any damned peace,” he snarls at her, gaze sparking as it holds hers, “is to be someone else.” He shifts close, his lips hovering close enough to her cheek that she would be able to feel the heat of his breath. “Or in death.” His words are soft, but there is nothing gentle about them. “But even that isn’t afforded to me.”
And it’s true, almost. Because he had found peace once in a dream. A distant dream he prefers never to remember again.
these things the ancient maidens whirl on
with rushing thread of brazen spindles.
It is perhaps the worst thing she has ever been accused of—arrogance—and it is the first thing he says that makes her flinch.
And then he descends upon her and it is impossible to ignore the effect he has on her heart when he is this close. (She wilts, the heartbeat stuttering, and this is the only reason she takes a single step backward away from him, though it looks like retreat either way.)
But he is relentless in his pursuit and follows where she goes and she cannot escape the pressure in her chest. The edges of her vision begin to strobe as she looks steadily back at him, this furious stranger still bathed in such a heavenly halo. Even as he snaps at her, his breath hot on her cheek, his teeth only inches from her flesh. (Somewhere in the shadows the wolf snickers quietly to itself because surely it had known this would happen eventually.)
This has gone so disastrously wrong and it shows in the way she grows physically weaker, standing there in front of him, caged between him and the river’s edge. She sucks in a sharp breath but it does very little to satisfy her need for air.
“All right,” she relents finally, acutely aware that he is the reason for the weakness sweeping through her. She searches his face and exhales, “you win.”
Like it has merely been a battle of wills, something like the games she plays with the wolf watching from the shadows. She swallows another breath.
“You win,” she says again, “please call off your magic.” Because she is convinced that it is something he’s doing on purpose.
I tried to sell my soul last night Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
There should be satisfaction in the way she flinches beneath his harsh accusation, in the way she retreats from his aggressive approach. There should be, but it feels hollow instead. Hollow like the inside of his chest. There is no victory in forcing such a gentle, innocent thing to cower before his anger.
Perhaps he’d imagined the satisfaction all those times before. Or perhaps it has simply ceased to be enough to fill the cavernous pit he calls a soul. She had stood unflinching before, daring even in her purity. It had made him so furious. Now she deflates before him, and he feels nothing but disgust.
The worst part is, it is not her he is disgusted with. It’s himself. When had he become such a shadow of himself that only violence could soothe the ache he feels?
Just that quickly, his rage flees, leaving him feeling gutted and empty. Leaving behind only the vague, incessant pain that seems to pinch somewhere inside him when he doesn’t have anger to disguise it. He pulls back, thinking to leave her then. There is nothing here for him if there isn’t a fight.
But her words stir confusion instead.
He frowns, the lines carving familiar paths into his face, when she declares him the winner. This is not the sort of fight he has ever cared about winning. No blood had been drawn, no bruises mark flesh. It’s a hollow victory, if it’s even a victory at all.
The frown pulls into a scowl when she insists he call off his magic. His ears disappear into the tangle of his mane, uncertainty fueling irritation. What the hell kind of game is she playing? Whatever it is, he knows he wants no part of it.
“I’m not using any fucking magic,” he snaps, eyeing her warily. Wondering if this is some new type of trickery. Give him an honest fight any day, but underhanded bullshit? No way in hell. “If this is some stupid game of yours, you can piss off. I’m not interested.”
