"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
02-10-2024, 10:07 PM (This post was last modified: 03-25-2024, 09:20 PM by jarris.)
i was ready to die for ya, baby
doesn’t mean i’m ready to stay
How spectacularly the world has changed.
He has watched from the meadow, which has remained largely untouched, as the lands of old have risen again. The Chamber, the Gates, the Dale. And he had ached for the Tundra, his beloved Tundra, but there had been absolutely no sign of it when the dust had settled so it had been easy to pretend as if nothing had changed at all.
(He has watched Beqanna shudder through so many dozens of metamorphoses now. He has watched her shed her skin and shrug on a new one time and time again. He has watched her take his Tundra and he has watched her unearth new, unexplored lands. He has watched dark gods cobble together deserts and all the while he has yearned for the ice.)
Perhaps it is the meadow he should love most. (But Jarris has never loved the things that have loved him most, has he? He has tried, certainly. But the heart has always been a wanderer. And yet, he has stayed. And yet, she has forgiven him. And yet, he is here still.)
This is as far as he’ll let himself wander now: the Ruins. He picks his way through the wreckage and wonders about the world it had been. He has seen so many places, near and far, but never anything like this.
And as he moves, he leaves a trail of gold. Gold that cuts rivers down his cheeks, splashes underfoot. And he grimaces, too, against the thorns that bite into the flesh and pollutes those gold rivers with his blood.
What a sorry sight he is as he goes, teeth gritted, breath labored against the pain of it. But when he looks up, something inside him lurches. It is not the heart but something deeper, something that rattles in the marrow of his bones. He tilts his head and exhales. “You,” he says, “don’t I know you?”
It does not matter how she’s changed: the pulse of life in his veins knows exactly who it belongs to.
She likes the Ruins, even if they don’t really feel as if they belong here.
The wars fought here were not theirs, and she does not know who the blood long-since dried into the dirt belongs to, but there is a haunted quality to it that feels familiar. It feels the way she imagines it might look like if someone split her open — the wreckage of something once beautiful, the kind of thing you look at and wonder what it had looked like before it was torn apart but somehow knowing that to rebuild it would mean you lose some of the original allure.
She is used to being made up of broken parts, pieced together with both magic and a strange, suffering kind of willpower — an unyielding need to stay alive but to regret nearly every moment of it. She cannot explain why being here feels like a knot finally loosening in her chest, as if the mist that hangs in the air is easier to choke on than breathing in the too-sweet air of the meadow.
The gold that is streaked across the ground catches her eye, and she pauses momentarily to survey it. She leaves behind her own trail of shimmering stardust, but this is different, almost blood-like. It leads her to a stallion, dapple gray (and of course her wretched little heart lurches for just a moment, as it always does) with a crown of thorns digging cruelly into his skin, streaked in crimson and gold.
“Jarris,” she breathes his name, and it feels familiar even though she can’t be sure she has ever spoken it. Maybe it is just her magic retrieving his name, but it feels deeper than that. His blood pulses and hers keeps time, and all at once she is brought back to a feeling of crushing despair and hopelessness, of sharp rocks and an unforgiving ocean — and the sensation of her immortality being ripped away, called by someone else. “I know you. But…I don’t know if you ever knew me,” she says, a soft frown forming under the golden light of the halo that hovers above her head. “My name is Ryatah.”
AND IT WAS REAL ENOUGH TO GET ME THROUGH — BUT I SWEAR YOU WERE THERE
02-13-2024, 05:21 PM (This post was last modified: 03-25-2024, 09:19 PM by jarris.)
i was ready to die for ya, baby
doesn’t mean i’m ready to stay
She says his name so easily that it arrests the heart in its ribbed cage. He feels it clench like a fist, the force of which kicks the air cleanly from his chest.
Jarris.
And there is some small horror in being known, he finds. A kind of guilt shivers its way into the pit of his gut, coils like a serpent there, a thing ready to sink its teeth into the meat of him. (Had he forgotten her? No, he knows her face. He knows her face in a way that feels like it belongs to him. Or perhaps he belongs to it.)
It is the familiarity that has him stricken, a kind of panic roiling in his chest at the thought that he knows her deeply, intimately, without knowing how. He remembers waking up here, finding Plumeria, and thinking her a ghost. But this is something altogether different.
“Ryatah,” he echoes, though it comes out sounding like a question. There is no flicker of recognition in his mind, but that same nameless thing in his chest rises up in response, that same nameless thing knows.
He, too, remembers the cold pelt of rain on the beach that day. But he remembers it as one might remember a dream or a thing that happened to someone else. It’s a suggestion more than a memory. He exhales long and slow and the gold pools at his feet, his legs are stained with it.
“Why do I know you?” he asks, quiet, uncertain. And that nameless thing hammers against its ribbed cage, tells him that whatever useless life he has belongs to her. How loud the thing screams! But he does not understand whatever language it speaks.
It is always strange to meet someone that drags her back in time.
Most of her life feels as if it is always hurtling forward — another change, another heartbreak, another love, another disaster. She has never been the type to look back, always perhaps a little too eager to leave the past behind her. It’s why she can love someone new without any reservations; it’s why she can launch headfirst into danger without thinking about what happened the last time she did that. She moves on before the wound is even healed, but she never loses the scars.
She doesn’t fully remember why she had gone to the beach that day; maybe her heart had been broken, or maybe life had felt impossibly heavy and empty and too long. She’s always had a bad habit of seeking relief from stagnation in violent ways, and she is sure that day hadn’t been any different.
“The immortality that you have,” she begins, just as she reaches into him to ever so gently pull at it, a curious look shadowing her face. She forgets sometimes what she can do with magic; that she can feel that golden thread of life, and for a moment she marvels at the fact that she could take it back if she wanted. She can feel the way it hums and shifts in response to her, and she is so unaccustomed to having control over anything at all that she can feel an alien greediness flare to life inside of her.
But the feeling passes and she releases her hold on it, letting it settle back into his veins and her nearly-black eyes are once again soft as they meet his storm-gray own. “It used to be mine. Something strange happened that day, and when I died it found you.” She thinks back to that dark, peculiar feeling from just moments before, and as if in reminder to herself she reassures him, “It’s yours, now. It was a gift to me—” she thinks of Moselle, the queen of the Dale that Carnage had unseated in the name of the Valley, and how she had granted immortality to her as a promise of protection for the kingdom “—and now I suppose a gift from me to you.”
Her gaze unknowingly drifts to the crown of thorns that dig into his skin, down to the golden tears that carve paths across his cheeks. She does not even realize when she is reaching out to brush her porcelain-white muzzle across his cheek, smearing the bloodied gold across both their skin as she asks, “were these a gift, too?” because she knows all too well that not all gifts are kind.
AND IT WAS REAL ENOUGH TO GET ME THROUGH — BUT I SWEAR YOU WERE THERE
i was ready to die for ya, baby
doesn’t mean i’m ready to stay
His has always been a bastard heart. (How many decades had he shuddered as women sank their teeth into the meat of it? How many years had love spent taking him to his knees?) But this is a different sensation altogether, the way she teases at the life force itself. It is not the heart she manipulates, but something entirely different. (He has felt it before, when Death has come calling and he has somehow evaded its capture. He has felt its effervescence in his veins and thought it magic. And it is, he knows it now with certainty.)
And he, too, has only some vague memory of that day on the Beach. The day she had jumped. Had he gone down to the shore to die, as well? It is strange, the way this memory curls itself into a tight knot of anxiety in the pit of his gut as he considers it.
He exhales, studies her face and wonders if it had been then that she’d been reborn something blessed, something sacred, something celestial. She looks like a thing of dreams, he thinks. She looks, certainly, like something of the heavens. To him, it seems the natural order of things that she should emerge from the jaws of Death something redeemed, especially after something so precious as eternal life had been taken from her.
There, of course, is a sting of guilt. It had been a gift to her and, through some cruel twist of fate, it had become his. “I hardly think I was worthy of it,” he says while those golden tears cut rivers down his cheeks, while the blood drips steady down his forehead. “My sins have been many,” he admits and turns his gaze away.
She reaches for him then and the eyes drift heavy closed. He cannot bear to see the way her skin must be stained. Then, a sad smile and he forces open his eyes. And he nods. “I suppose,” he murmurs, “a gift I was far more deserving of.”
