"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
we have a greed with which we have agreed. you think you have to want more than you need; until you have it all you won't be free. and when you think more than you want, your thoughts begin to bleed.
Wishbone welcomes the winter chill after an unseasonably warm autumn. The long, tangled locks of her mane often create a miniature heat source against her neck. It makes winters more bearable, but also makes the heat worse than it should be. There are times when she wishes for the bodies she used to have — especially the mahogany form that still feels like ‘her’ as she truly is, as she is in her dreams and memories — but when a snowstorm or icy rain rolls through, she is thankful for her thick purple coat.
One such snowstorm is slowly approaching, and Wishbone keeps a careful amber eye on the forming clouds as she grazes on leftover snippets in the Meadow. The sky is beginning to look threatening, but still from a distance. She feels comfortable continuing to eat before the ground is fully covered with snowdrifts. Patches of ice poke through the grass, so she drifts between them to grab mouthfuls.
For once, her mind does not wander to the twins or the other failures she seems to remember too well. Wishbone is content to simply be — focusing on eating and keeping a close eye on the oncoming storm.
Malik had only ever returned to Tephra to look for his sister. There had been no use looking for Wishbone. She was dead. His father had told him so.
Though he has deconstructed many of the lies told to him by the blue stallion, Malik had somehow never questioned the one about his first mother being dead. Not until he sees her, grazing in the open meadow beneath the deep grey threat of an oncoming storm. Not dead.
Or perhaps a trick of some sort.
“Mom?” He says softly, the first word barely audible even across the small space between them that his immediate approach had made. “Is that you?” Even as he says it, his mismatched eyes settle on the glowing wound in the center of her chest. He knows that wound, and has seen others like it.
He swallows hard, his teeth clenching.
His father hadn’t been lying. He had killed her.
But she is alive, or so it seems. He does not let himself believe. Not Yet. Malik does not give in to the relief that clambors behind years of wariness, not when he has been fooled before. Instead he waits for an answer, his dark features pulled into a frown, his eyes disbelieving.
we have a greed with which we have agreed. you think you have to want more than you need; until you have it all you won't be free. and when you think more than you want, your thoughts begin to bleed.
She shifts her eyes from the sky to the ground, not paying much attention to those around her. There aren’t many out with the storm approaching, and she isn’t expecting anyone to approach her. The Meadow provides a sense of security (false or true) with its vast expanse, providing opportunities for escape or a witness. Besides, she doesn’t care much if someone does attack her; there is an added feeling of safety knowing that she might reform if someone succeeded in attacking her. Wishbone doesn’t notice him until he is almost upon her, the sound of his feet crunching the dried, cold grass.
How many nights has she dreamed of seeing his face? She has seen rabbits striped with shadows and thought they were Malik for a hopeful second. Her mothering heart has seen him in river depths and clouds and trees. She has heard his laugh in the wind, has felt his warmth with the sun, and has embraced his love in her memories. Wishbone has spent the last years dreaming and missing and regretting — and now he is here.
There is disbelief for a second, simply because she has seen him in so many places and yet nowhere at all. Wishbone can’t deny it is him, though — she recognizes her adopted son despite his adulthood, has seen those iridescent markings shimmering on a hundred animals during his youth — and her wide eyes quickly warm into the purest expression of love.
“Oh, my heart,” she says breathlessly. Wishbone can understand the disbelief that darkens his face. He’d been snatched from her as a child, just after Gale had hunted her down and left her dead. She can’t imagine the lies that her son had been told. Her heart breaks for him, picturing his childhood as a constant game of deciphering the truth from lies. “It’s me, Malik.”
She would give anything to stride forward, gathering him up in an embrace. He needs time to trust her, to believe her. Her legs practically shake with the effort to restrain herself. Wishbone rushes to say what she has been thinking all these years, “I’m so sorry, honey. I failed you.” Her voice is thick with tears threatening to burst from her amber eyes, and she clears her throat to keep them at bay a moment longer.
Oh my heart, she says, the voice just as he remembers. But still he does not step closer. He only watches with narrow blue and orange eyes, his dark ears pointed forward. This could be his mother, but it could as easily be an illusion or a shifter, a trick or a trap meant to catch him unaware. The world he had grown up in had been full of such things, even if this world is far more still.
Some part of him knows that it would be wisest to walk away, to leave this behind and carry on as he has. He has made it this far with knowing she is dead, after all.
But how far is this far? His existence is little more than wandering through the common lands of Beqanna, a dark figure always at the edge. His family has slipped away, and the allure of following them has been growing stronger with each day. Is that why she has come? To keep him from slipping away as well?
Malik takes one cautious step forward, hearing the apology but still uncertain if the figure is wraith with his mother's countenance or a true resurrection. He wants to believe the latter, but there is no effort to hide the doubt in his eyes.
"He told me you were dead." He says. Then, more hesitantly, "How can I know you aren't just something I'm imagining? Are you a ghost?"
ooc: this was written at work so im sorry for any disconnected thoughts! also i know this thread is old so we can start a new one, scrap it, or keep it going; whatever you'd prefer!
