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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


    here is the repeated image of a lover destroyed; any
    #1
    Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
     With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
     And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane;



    He overstayed his time on the mortal plane; he grew old and sway-backed, gray speckling his muzzle. When death came, he was grateful. He welcomed death, following her into the ocean, sinking down, down, down.
    His life had been long, and full of pain, of heartbreak, of his own failings. His own sins. He did not cling to it. He did not cherish it. He had never had that ill ideal of immortality that some swept, the unshakable belief that death would somehow pass them by. No, he’d felt the weight of the days in every aching bone.
    And he had died. As he was supposed to.
     
    But there was something latent in him. He woke on the shores of the beach, a moment exchanged with a woman who looked too much like Garbage. Who looked too much like a boy – a young boy – that Garbage had once known.
    (I could keep you warm, he promised, and he fulfilled that promise, god help him.)
    And then there had been a pull, terrible and strange, and he had not though over much of it, until –
     
    Until his ghost form burned and smoldered, until the oceans he’d walked into years ago seethed and foamed, and from their waves a crumpled, wet form was spat back on to the beach.
    The wretched thing rises to his knees, and it’s reminiscent, in a way, of how he kneeled in different sands, in a long-dead kingdom.
    He’s still black, and when he opens his eyes, they still blaze orange.
    But he’s younger, the years wound back. He’s handsome, if you don’t look to close.
    He rises to his feet, staggers. Memories swirl in his mind, a storm, and some of them are locked away in this rebirth, and what he’s left with is a sort of echo, the sense of something there but not an idea of what.
    Reborn, but not.
    Remade, but still broken.
     
    He walks, a path he doesn’t know but his feet still recall. Back to the meadow. Back to a place he once knew so well.


     
    Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
     I never saw a brute I hated so;
     He must be wicked to deserve such pain.


    Reply
    #2

    City



    After her meeting with the Iron Queen the pale mare takes her freckled self immediately across the borders. Non-chalantly she strolls down the beaches of Hyaline and does not care to even bend an ear or flick one of her sulfuric eyes to any of the passer-bys. Her grimace and permanently set laid back ears, gnarled into her creamy long hair, keeps strangers from uttering even a hello. Most move aside as she trots down the sinking, soggy sands toward the River and then Taiga’s borders, across a few fallen logs to cross the canal and finally she’s in the forest. Here she lurks, but does not stay and after a few bites of dead grass she moves along to the meadow.

    He’s there, shrouded but clearly enough a stallion. Her interest in men dwindles by the day, by the hour, so it is certainly odd when the lioness creeps toward him with perked ears. She stops a few feet away, enough to turn on a heel if the interactions sours but close enough to show her scarred, freckled body. Her hair falls heavily and long over her face and neck, her tail winding into the frosty leaves and twigs. She can see the glint of his orange eyes, eyes like her daughters, like Covet’s eyes. His name licking the back of her thoughts makes her shiver. 

    Hello..” She says this with her normally granite-cold voice, but it melds so sweetly with the coming winter’s tightening grip.
     


    rushed and filled with all I found
    more, give me more, give me more





    couldn't help my goddamn self <3
    Reply
    #3
    Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
    With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
    And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane;



    In a memory that he can no longer recall, he is a boy dying on the sand.
    In this memory – this fleeting thing – he is weeping before his mother, weak and stupid, and she is turning her back because his eyes
    (those goddamned eyes)
    are a reminder that he is the son of her enemy, of the king who killed her lover.
    And he tears his eyes out for her. Paws them out with hooves that are not meant for such surgical precision, so with his eyes come pieces of bone, rivers of blood.
    Do you love me now, he cries, but she’s dead, because this boy – this stupid boy – he killed her, too.
    Those goddamned eyes.
    (He was healed, after this, by a magician who said he loved him when really what he loved was the fact Garbage looked like another. It’s a terrible story.)

    He doesn’t recall this, not in the way he once did. He knows there is something awful about his eyes, which burn like jack-o-lanterns in their sockets, but he doesn’t know what.
    In this life, he doesn’t know the name Covet. He doesn’t know his own father, or his mother.

    There’s a noise, and he turns his head to look. A mare, speckled gray, with a voice like stone and Garbage wonders what she could possibly want from him.
    “Hello,” he says, and his voice is little more than a croak, throat wrecked by seawater. His voice conveys none of the power hers had. She is stone, and he is sand, crumbling and forgiving.



    Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
    I never saw a brute I hated so;
    He must be wicked to deserve such pain.


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