"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
Solitude suits her. Silence suits her. She wraps herself in it, withdrawing further and further from those she calls home. She does not seek out the gentle, reassuring touches of her mother. She does not seek out the comforting echo of her twin. She does all she can to avoid the sharp, scrutinizing gaze of her father. She withdraws, like a rose whose petals first brush up against winter. She folds in on herself, pulling back all the pieces until she is carefully enclosed, until there is nothing left vulnerable; she is a vault and all her secrets remain guarded.
In the silence, she watches Beqanna change. She watches dust settle. She watches lands with deep roots find their way here and then leave. She watches it all from the distance she seems safe and does not venture forth. There is trust that her family will be fine; they have certainly experienced both better and worse without any intervention from her before. So there is no guilt in her black heart. Only satisfaction that she has swallowed her own self-inflicted poison. That she has taken her own vile tonic and no one else need suffer her bitter tongue.
But all things end.
Even her solitude.
There is no grand change (although she would be a fool to have missed the changes sweeping across Beqanna once more). There is no defining moment. One morning she simply opens her gold eyes and exhales, something deflating in her chest and pushing her forward. And so she does. Unwillingly at first and then begrudgingly. She unfolds her limbs, now long and slender, and she shakes the time from her coat, sending a small plume of it into the air. Her wings unfold around her and she wraps them tightly to her sides, a small comfort if any.
And without further hesitation, she moves forward—back to civilization, back to her family, back to life.
It is the noise, at first, that surprises her. She nearly yanks back in surprise, the sound deafening after so long sequestered in the silence. She sets her teeth against it, a muscle jumping in her jaw, and focuses on taking long, even breaths. Focuses on drowning out the din of conversation. The din of emotions that wash up against a mind nearly defenseless in its disuse.
But, like the silence, this too settles. She becomes more accustomed the further she walks until it becomes a hum instead of a scream. She closes her eyes to settle herself again and when she opens, she realizes that she has no idea where she is or where she’s gone.
It does not make sense that he misses the water when it disappears. He was not made for it—not the way his father and sisters were, taking after his mother instead—yet he had always been drawn to it. When all of Beqanna had been surrounded by water, seemingly on the verge of sinking into its depths entirely, he had felt only peace. Perhaps it was because, selfishly, he enjoyed watching everyone else around be uncomfortable. Their homes were gone, life as they knew it forever changed, and the foundation of their world had been shaken. It was nice to for once not feel as though he was the only one in the world without a sense of purpose, who had no idea which path he was supposed to be following. Misery loves company, they say, and for him it was true.
When everything began to return to normal—a new version of normal for some, but for others it was reminiscent of a normal from long ago—he did not share in their delight. He would explore the new lands in time, but for now he was content to stay in the ruins, which after the recent changes, had gone incredibly quiet.
It seemed as though everyone had other places they would rather be than walking among the ghost-like remnants of someone else’s war. He was grateful for that, since he was not always in the mood for dealing with their stares. Beqanna, though full of all things strange and beautiful, still seemed ill-prepared to come face-to-face with someone like him. At first glance, he is far more reptilian than equine; his face snake-like and strange, with a body covered in frost-covered scales, ending with a rattlesnake tail. Over the years he had grown adept at ignoring the curious looks, though likely the rigid clench of his jaw and coolness of his eyes also aided in keeping strangers at bay.
No matter how badly he craved company it was never enough to risk ridicule or prying questions.
It’s why when he sees her, the seemingly only other soul in this place that he of course has managed to unknowingly cross paths with, he comes to a sudden stop. The differences between them is such a glaring contrast that he nearly laughs at the absurdity of it, because she stands there, ethereal and illuminated by some kind of unearthly light, marked with rose-gold and adorned with wings and a halo, and there he stands, with his snake-like body and the almost harsh angles of his face, everything about him almost too strange for words. “There’s a story that has serpents and angels in it somewhere, isn’t there?” he muses aloud as he draws closer to her, humor glinting in the narrowed shape of his sage-green eyes.
— i slithered here from eden just to sit outside your door —
For something so pretty, she does not crave beauty. She would cut herself on the cragged edges of broken glass every time. She would pull her belly through it. She would stand apart from the mess and paint herself in the aftermath. She craves that ugliness. She craves the raw truth of it because its the only thing that makes sense to her. Her mind cries out for the ragged edges of it; for the tangible truth hidden in the intangible silence.
So she doesn’t startle when he approaches, serpentine and graceful, his eyes as sharp as her fathers although cooler than she recognizes.
His remark pulls a smile from her blessed smile, a twitch of velvet lips as she regards him. There is an echo of a laugh in her throat, something rich and breathy that evaporates the second that it hits the air, like smoke released too soon. The humor of it washes from her delicate features just as quickly and she is left studious and solemn in the aftermath, studying him with an intensity that does not adopt the features of scrutiny but mimics it close enough.
“Is there?” she muses aloud, breathing the lie so easily. “I am not sure that I have ever heard it.” A tilt of a haloed head as she glances around them, noting dispassionately that they are now are alone in these ruined lands. Her chest relaxes slightly at the realization, her mind bathing in the silence of his solo emotions. “Perhaps you can fill me in on the details,” she prompts with another ghost of a smile. And then, almost reluctantly, an introduction:
She is undeniably beautiful, but it is in a way that bears a resemblance to his mother and sisters—the kind of beauty that is not fragile, but fearsome instead. He would not have been surprised at all to find that her smile revealed sharp teeth, and when it doesn’t he can only assume that her weapon is something else; to him, being beautiful only equates to also being dangerous. He stares at her, unbothered, but he cannot deny the faint bitterness that rises to his tongue, as he wonders what it might have been like to be both beautiful and powerful. He already knows what it is to be feared; perhaps not outright, but the looks he garners are not usually ones of admiration.
Not the way he is certain everyone must look at her, divine and resolute, like a treasure you know you cannot keep for yourself but you want to covet anyway.
He catches himself looking at her in such a way, and immediately he flicks those snake-eyes to somewhere else, and the way his jaw clenches momentarily is disguised behind an already sharp jawline and the glint of scales.
“Unfortunately I don’t actually know the story well enough to do it justice in the retelling. I’m sure I’d get important details muddied up,” he says as he finally directs his gaze back to hers, this time having steeled himself against the lovely image of her haloed face. “I don’t think the snakes were well-liked, though,” he finishes with a faint, crooked grin.
“Baptiste,” he repeats her name, almost cautiously, as if he is not certain he has permission to even speak it. “I’m Riptide.” There is a strange pause, as if here he has come to expect a certain reaction—dubious stares, usually, as they once again study his snake-like head and rattlesnake tail. “My father is very fond of water.”
— i slithered here from eden just to sit outside your door —
