"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
The mistake walks out from the shadows and into the ruins. He likes it here, the strange inexplicableness of it, the faint smell of salt in the air. He feels a sort of kinship with this place, two things never meant to be but here, existing somewhere out in Beqanna.
He is a mistake because he was not supposed to be born – his mother had told him that often enough – and when she kept him, he wasn’t supposed to be him. He was supposed to be part of some strange ritual, a line of daughters and absent mothers, but he was not. Even with all his power – the ability to raise the dead, the horns that curled from his head, the way his body stretched and contorted – it was not enough. He was a mistake. And so she left.
That mattered more, once. That she left. He tries not to let it matter now, even if he still calls himself a mistake. Even if he lurks in the ruins like he belongs here. He is old enough now that the woes of his childhood should be shed. He can reinvent himself, he thinks, moving further amongst the rocks, the sun catching his dark coat and making the gold sheen of it catch.
He is here and maybe that can be enough.
Like a moth to a flame, he can’t help himself. Even against his better judgement, he finds himself here. Over and over again, a sick cycle that he can’t seem to break even if it costs him his sanity and oh, how it wants to shatter. How weak his mind feels against the constant battering of souls at the gates, the unrelenting pounding that makes the edges of his vision blur.
And yet, he still comes like a thing possessed. Certain that he would find something here of importance and no longer caring what exactly that might be or look like. It doesn’t even seem to matter if it holds relevance to the search of Aela or the other lost Southerners anymore. That dark little voice that wraps around his mind and constricts his heart in his chest seems more persistent now. Reminding him of that one word that he can never outrun, can never escape, the true moniker his birth mother had given him.
Terrible, terrible, terrible.
A mantra that repeats itself like the steady beat of a heavy drum, a death knoll that won’t stop keening. All of Aela’s teachings and confidence that she had so carefully instilled in him seem to grow weaker in this place, faint memories that can’t compare to the strong hold these stones seem to have on him. For a moment, he swears he sees familiar transparent claws that flash in his head, so similar to the ones that had ravaged his pale dappled coat until he had been touched by an angel. It’s that thought that manages to bring a small spell of peace to soothe his throbbing temples, enough so that he catches a flash of gold from the corner of a strange yellow eye.
There is no hesitance in the flames he sends to hopefully circle around the thing of gold, a stallion of similar age he comes to find when he steps through his ring of fire, not even thinking twice that he’s treating a stranger like a hostage. The little voice purrs with malicious approval but he ignores that too, wrapped up in the hope that he had finally found what he was suppose to find here.
One mistake stares at another mistake until one tilts his pale golden head, flames flickering in the reflection of his feral eyes as he discovers something familiar in the golden ones of the other. “Have we met before?”
Prime doesn’t know the same deep aches. Not in any way he can articulate. He knows there is something inside him, something raw and tender, but he has worked hard to bury that part of him. It’s not so hard. Things could have been much worse for him. He wasn’t wanted, so what? He was raised well enough by his father, and he is powerful, made of gold and demons and death, and this puts him ahead of many.
So he tells himself.
He is not expecting the fire – why should he? – so when it appears, circling him like a cage, horns sprout from his head, sharp and terrible things, and his body elongates, stretching taller. His mind reaches out, grabbing for the fire-bringer’s life force, trying to grasp it. Not to harm – not yet – but to make himself known as a threat. Prime is not a seasoned fighter – not even close – but he is willing to play the part, his ears pinned flat, firelight dancing in his golden eyes.
And then he sees him. Another stallion, golden and fiery, staring at him like Prime owes him something. He isn’t sure what, but as he looks closer, he has a suspicion. He spent enough time with Firion to know the stamp of him.
“No,” he all he says, watching the flames more than the man.
“Why do you ask?”
03-01-2022, 06:22 PM (This post was last modified: 03-22-2022, 08:34 PM by Fyr.)
I'll settle for the ghost of you.
Denial is a powerful thing and can be wielded with the same strength that feeds the force of flames that erupt around the stranger. There is only curiosity as he watches the other stretch and bend, the horns that sprout from his brow, and then that peculiar invasion that surprisingly doesn’t scare him at all even as he staggers slightly and black clouds and white spots begin to creep at the edge of his vision as it presses against his heart. Even that seems familiar in a way, the dark force that touches him threateningly, and he doesn’t understand why. Or does he?
The shadow voice is still purring and he feels that if he allowed a single soul to come through in this very moment, Terror will be first in line and he might not even mind the additional company. He keeps a firm grasp on the fire, refusing to release it, but allows the flames to die down slightly as his unwavering feral eyes stay steady on the other.
Prime is lucky to have learned how to bury those aches, to have had the guidance of his father. But then again, Firion hadn’t raised him. He hadn’t had anyone until Aela had come along. It was only by either luck on his end or maybe misfortune on Firion’s that they had been brought together in the Forest. That strength of Fyr’s denial so powerful even as a young colt as he refused to admit what was so blindingly obvious for everyone else to see. “Me from the future”, is what he had stupidly called him and he can still recall the etch of concern that had settled on Aela’s forehead.
He liked Firion. The regret of not being able to help him still lingered. So it was a different ache that settled along the cruel moniker of terrible. And it would hurt all that much more to know that this half-brother had been claimed by him while he had not. He would know the answer instantly, why?
Terrible.
His feral gaze looks over the flattened ears, the unamused expression, and remembers the advice of his mother to pit himself against the best of the best. That threat against him seems like a small taste of what the other could do and a strange smile finds his pale lips in acknowledgment of this. He wonders if he could erupt the other's heart into flames and make it combust, if he could do so before the other could strike him out once and for all. The prospect is rather thrilling, either way. The dark voice coos with delight.
Suddenly disgusted with himself, he drops the ring of fire fully until the only hints of orange is what flickers along his spine. “Because I think I’m suppose to find something here and thought it might be you.” He finally admits, his brow furrowed as he thinks and tries to ignore the building throb in the back of his skull. “I’m Fyr.” Not in the way of fire, but the other way. The one that seems to fit for some reason in this situation. "What was that... That thing you did?"
He breathes a little easier as the fire lowers down, although it doesn’t disappear completely, so he keeps his slight grasp on the other’s life force. He’s inelegant with his power, unpracticed save for a few sessions. There are surprisingly few volunteers for this kind of thing, and Prime, though no genius, is smart enough to keep to himself and not exact his powers on random passers-by. He isn’t really sure what he’d do if the threat kept on, if the fire burned hotter. Maybe he could take enough to make him pass out. He doesn’t know how to measure out such things, though. Prime suddenly feels woefully unprepared for whatever this thing is, this boy with his fire and the markings that Prime’s seen before, and it’s like they’re performing some play that he didn’t learn the lines to.
But this worry is for naught, in the end, because the fire drops and Prime breaths deep, the air tasting only faintly of smoke. In return, he releases whatever grasp he had, and this is easier, this, he can maybe do.
“Oh,” he all he says when the stranger says I think I’m supposed to find something here and thought it might be you. He doesn’t know how to respond to that. What importance is he? Unless…
“Did Firion send you?” he asks. He hadn’t seen his father since he was old enough to strike out on his own, but maybe his father needed something from him. Prime suddenly hopes this is it, that he is needed somewhere, that he could be of importance, of use.
But the stranger – Fyr, he says his name is - has another question and Prime looks at him, still somewhat unsure what game is being playing.
“I’m Prime,” he says, “and what I did was…I just reached out and grabbed, For your life force. I thought I was in danger. It comes naturally – like your fire, I think.”
It is interesting, to feel the sensation of being controlled by something outside of himself. There is a notion that he should absolutely be more concerned with the predicament he had placed himself in but the dark voice is soothing until the moment he releases his magic. A snarl of displeasure and then the voice is quiet once more. It is just him, the stranger, and the throbbing pressure in his head.
There is a brief moment of shame as he watches the stallion breathe in deeply as flames smother to ash. It doesn’t linger, not like it normally would. This should bother him as well, normally he would be concerned. Is it the Ruins that make him feel like this or the stranger? "Terrible.” That is the answer that he tries not to think about. That is the only answer that fits.
He should have been expecting it. That name. He wasn’t though and it shows. Fyr looks at him rather startled and it slows his tongue, keeping the rapid fire questions that storm into his head briefly at bay. The flames along his spine rise and fall, curling with anxiety. Prime, no longer a stranger, explains what he had done and he simply stares at him before nodding slowly in understanding. Fascinated and confused. “Firion didn’t send me. I haven’t seen him in a long time.” He finally manages as the silence spreads, needing a moment to sort through the list of questions he had. “Who is he to you?” He suspects he already knows but wants to hear it anyway.
An apology is probably warranted for making Prime feel as if he had been in danger but the words never come. It doesn’t seem right, to apologize for what he was. Aela wouldn’t approve anyways. Nor did he expect one from him, it had been deserved after all. “What are you doing here?” Is what he asks instead, coming a little closer to the male and looking at him with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.
