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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    None -- Year 218

    QOTY

    "He watches her, noticing first the way she moves beneath moonlight, and he is reminded of a time before magic ran rampant as it does now. How back then there were some that simply seemed to be magic without actually having it, the kind that could capture your attention and keep it." --Eadoin, written by Colby


    [private]  Out of touch, are we out of time?
    #1
    I am Heaven sent, don't you dare forget

    Fyr was well acquainted with death but he had never seen the ugliness of it in person. The body without its soul, the empty shell left behind when the soul merged into the otherworld.

    He had looked upon the face of the jaguar mare (spotted like him, a jolting awareness of his own mortality, an out of body reminder that so many of them were connected in ways they didn’t realize) and she had looked like she was sleeping despite the savage wounds along her russet body.  Behind him had stood the Prince and his unicorn sister, along with a small group of others. Some who cared, some who were simply nosy. She had been carefully moved on a small bed of flowers arranged on the cliffs over the sea, a peaceful place that matches the serenity of her expression in death.

    It was a heavy burden to place on a boy as young as he but the jaguar colt had lost his innocence quickly after birth. The request to help was not one he shied from, already keeping a painful secret from the black and gold stallion with the soul of his daughter that he had befriended. He hadn’t gotten to know Tantalize well in the few months she had lived in the Pampas but she had always been kind to him in passing. And the familiarity…. There was nothing in him, not even the darkness, that wanted to say no.

    He had swallowed hard as he looked at the dried blood on the fallen mare, the crumpled wings, the marks of assault. And then, solemnly, he closes his eyes as the mare and her small pyre of blooms erupt into flames.

    A fitting goodbye for a warrior Queen.

    - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

    Melancholy fell over the flowered hills as its ruler spent more time near the sea and less time amongst his court. The air is weighted, as if the land itself recognizes the growing loss of it’s overseer, and he wonders if that is just another magical way the dark Fae is connected to the earth or has to do with death itself. Regardless, he feels smothered, and so he makes for the inviting coolness of the forest.

    It’s not just to escape, the reason he comes here. His conversation with his mother still presses on his brain. “He could be your father.” She had said when he had mentioned his random encounter with the golden stallion that looked quite similar to himself. Aela was usually right in most things. She was probably right in this as well. Still, his young heart was wary of asking. It doesn’t keep him from wanting to see him though. Perhaps it was the death of the mare who shared his spots, perhaps it was the stony silence emanating from her son,  or maybe it was a mix of all of the above as well as curiosity that spurs him into the action of searching the dark woods for Firion.

    fyr


    firion
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    #2
    FIRION

    Firion was not fit company these days. Not that he ever classified himself as anything like it, but now, he knew he was especially poor. It was only in the tender moments with Mazikeen that he felt the edges softened, the rawness of it muted. When she was away though—when she was gone—it flooded back onto him with a ferocity that was unmatched. He could drown in that kind of loss, he thinks, when he wakes and realizes that his mother is still gone. When he thinks of how she had looked on that riverbank.

    It haunts him and drives him out of his new home—her home—to the forest. To the shadows that trail him and then become him. To the moonlight that sets him glowing soft as he weaves through the forest fully formed. He slips from a corporeal form to something less tangible, wisps of darkness that still feel the same ache as before. It clenches at his heart no matter how he looks. It drives him mad regardless.

    So he comes back to himself just in time to stumble upon the young body.

    His eyes widen slightly and then narrow and he feels something like panic rise in him—a desperate need to protect the boy from the roughened edges and overpowering grief that floods through him. He is a tsunami of unchecked emotions and he knows his grip on it is weak at best, harrowingly loose.

    “Fyr,” he manages, voice raw and gritty. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

    so as our grief falls flat and hollow upon a billion blooded seas
    all our worst ideas are borrowed (you do and don't belong to me)

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    #3
    I am Heaven sent, don't you dare forget

    He had almost given up his search when there is a whisper of shadows.

    The darkness writhes and Firion appears abruptly before him. Both are startled by the appearance of the other and flames erupt around him (and ripple down his spine) before he realizes his own foolishness and quickly puts them out, leaving just flickers of embarrassment along his backside. The stallion speaks and Fyr glances down at the forest floor with his peculiar yellow eyes, unable to ignore the fact that they both glow golden where the moonlight manages to filter through the thick canopy.

    It doesn’t take him long to realize that something is different about Firion. It starts with his voice, the raw grit to it, that brings his gaze back up quickly. “I was looking for you.” The yearling colt admits solemnly, searching the other’s face and finding something recognizable there. Something to do with his eyes or the tightness around his mouth… It reminded him of the Prince’s hard pressed grimace as the mare erupted into flames. It reminded him of Falter and the strain in her words when she spoke about her missing father.

    Grief was always walking behind Death’s coattails, an early lesson he had learned when he had summoned the soul of the newborn dead girl. Where death had been, grief was quick to follow. 

    He hesitates for a moment, sending new flames to scorch along his vertebrae, as he gathers his courage. Firion was still very much a stranger to him but he cannot help the sudden need to connect to the man, to let him know he recognized what the adult was struggling to contain. That he wanted to understand it. Did he also know the jaguar mare? Or was it something else equally as terrible? One step, then another as he drifts closer to him before he presses his glowing muzzle to the other’s neck, extending his own as far as he can reach. He lingers there for a moment, barely daring to draw in a breath, before looking up at his sire with those strange feral eyes. No words come to him but sometimes words aren't needed at all. Another lesson he was learning when it came to death and it's favorite companion. 

    fyr


    firion
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    #4
    FIRION

    There is only so much that one man can bear—only so much that he can be expected to survive. He feels it now, that threadbare feeling of being stretched too thin. It frightens him. Very little frightens him more than his own control, his own darkness, that same feeling of not trusting what may become of him. But he doesn’t flee yet because he doesn’t know how that might feel for the young boy.

    Instead he remains, rooted to the spot and his overbought eyes on the young boy.

    “I see,” he replies quietly, that hoarseness not yet leaving his voice. He should soften, he knows. He should promise Fyr a lesson in magic like he has promised—like he has said that he would do. But the words don’t come. He just stands there, silently, watching the young boy and doing his best to hold back the tsunami of emotions that rage just below the surface, threatening to drive him into the shadows.

    It’s only when the boy comes near that he feels anything come to the surface.

    It’s fear that rises in him, desperate and shaky and he nearly pushes the boy away before he closes the distance, but he only manages to control himself—just barely. He breathes in sharply as Fyr touches his neck and looks down the edge of his nose to the other, studying him with an unchecked intensity.

    “I’m not good company today,” his voice is strangled. “I’m really not.” 

    so as our grief falls flat and hollow upon a billion blooded seas
    all our worst ideas are borrowed (you do and don't belong to me)

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