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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "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


    [open]  these golden ashes turn to dirt
    #1
    ILLUM
    Illum thinks it is possible that as a boy he must have looked up into the velvet dark of a star strewn sky and felt that tug of wonder inside his chest, the romance of so much unknown, of an entire universe always there and always just out of reach. He has seen that look in the faces of strangers when their gaze first alights on him, a subtle widening of eyes that go soft and liquid dark, a yearning for the stars that drift like glittering dust across the expanse of skin that is cold and dark and only just past the threshold of tangible, silk that does not give beneath curious touch.

    He would be the perfect predator in this body - and perhaps he is, perhaps he has been. He thinks of a rose gold girl who had looked at him with so much trust, so much faith, like he was something she had spent a lifetime believing in. A dream instead of a nightmare, a friend instead of a ghost. Remembering, he thinks that she had considered him something beautiful, but now in her absence he wonders if she were too clever to believe in such misleading appearances.

    Maybe it had been him that believed in her.
    He still wishes he had kept her.

    But it seems that none of them see beyond the stars, beyond the twinkling ethereal lights that lance the true desolation of his night. A time of endless shadow, endless dark, where fear takes root inside sleeping minds, planted like a seed that grows into a festering wound. He is that desolation, that festering rot. He is not the stars, not the light, but the cold dark that waits between them.

    He stands alone on such a night - it is the only time he ventures out now, the day is too bright, too wrong - and if not for the haunting of stars that wander in irregular revolutions around the gravity of his night, he might be invisible. His wings are tucked against his body in such a way that the scar of white and gold at the base of one wing is nearly invisible. He is sure he had not meant to come this far, not further than the borders of home, but he knows what he will not face, what he will not admit even to himself. That there are too many ghosts in Taiga now, too many memories he would untether and set free if he could.

    (He would not.)

    The emptiness of space lives inside the hollow dark of his chest, and when his eyes lift to look around him they are a cold, mercurial silver instead of the wam, dusky gold. If there had been any goodness rediscovered in him, it has since come unhinged, hanging on by threads that fray and unravel - and he thinks, looking around again with a face that is ethereally dark and beautiful, star strewn and indistinct at impossibly black edges, that it is not a bad thing to be a perfect predator.




    he's probably not going to be nice or pleasant, on account of he isn't nice or pleasant
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    #2




    And with a sweep of her tail, there lies a grave in the ground. She is pressed closer to it. “This one is for you.”

    “And when you are ready for it, we will come and find you.”
    And when she is ready for it, they will come and find her.

    The words raced through her like lightning.

    She thinks about this every time she steps into the forest. She sometimes expects the entirety of the forest to leap out at her and drag her down, down, down. But it doesn't happen. Around her the forest is not as quiet as she expected it to be. Beneath the soft hush, hush, hush of the beginning and the end she can hear the rousing of night owls. Their metronome song echoes through the darkness and gloom. This girl with her eyes the color of spring skies and with her brow marked with symbols of love instead of death, she wonders at the silence of it all.

    She knows he is here, even if she does not know him.

    A cloud passes over the starlight. There are a million drops of saltwater in the rain. They gather in the clouds, clinging tightly to one another, afraid to fall. She finds him, just as the clouds run away once more to reveal the stars behind them. Somehow, the world feels darker. And that darkness is immaculate, almost wild, almost grotesque.

    And the immaculate darkness turns holy.

    When he turns, he will find big, bright, blue eyes staring back at him.
    Maybe she was looking for him all along, this man she knows, but does not, when she went into the forest.

    “Are you cold?” She asks. ‘Or scared,’ she wants to ask too, but doesn’t. Her voice, although she does not realize it, holds in it a bit of song. A star shimmers bright to the north of them as it sings below the clouds speckling a sky that no longer looks dark, but too bright, too-too bright. Blue eyes turn away for just a moment, casting her glacial gaze into the night strewn forest. “Are you real?”


    « r » | @Illum
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