He isn’t dead.
It’s a magical feat that Trekk’s body is not a pile of decomposing flesh and bone upon the bone-white shores of the beach. There had been a time when every cliff, every deep pool of water, and every sharp tree branch had called to him (“Jump and fall off us!” or “Drown your troubles in us!” or “Pierce your shattered heart on us!”) and it had taken every fiber of his being to resist their temptations.
The sickly darkness inside him has never left.
But he has grown firm over the years. Perhaps it is thanks to her absence. Trekk has suffered the life of a soft, abused heart for too long and now he has finally toughened the edges of his shattered, duct-taped, glued-together soul into something stronger. Into a soul that is worth relying on, rather than having to rely on.
He’s tried to keep tabs on their children over the years - knowing that his spring goddess would do none of that. They were both silent for some time, their boys, but eventually Takei began rustling at the more well-worn corners of Beqanna. Trekk resisted the urge to shoulder his son’s sorrows in the field, when he had screamed to the sky, but the dun mare had been there for comfort in his stead.
Daemron still remains dormant and ignorant of life.
Her splash startles his thoughts. He’d been drinking peacefully at the bend of the river when the loud sounds of water moving and the ripples of the water disturbed brought his head up rapidly. She surfaces, like a water nymph, like a diamond from the mine, like a spring goddess. He is quiet.
He is so, so quiet.
Trekk’s feathers shuffle against his thin sides for a moment. Normally, the large festering wound on his right hip would be bothering him, crying for an itch against a tree. It says nothing, cries nothing, wants for nothing.
And then, “Noori?”
@[Noori]
It’s a magical feat that Trekk’s body is not a pile of decomposing flesh and bone upon the bone-white shores of the beach. There had been a time when every cliff, every deep pool of water, and every sharp tree branch had called to him (“Jump and fall off us!” or “Drown your troubles in us!” or “Pierce your shattered heart on us!”) and it had taken every fiber of his being to resist their temptations.
The sickly darkness inside him has never left.
But he has grown firm over the years. Perhaps it is thanks to her absence. Trekk has suffered the life of a soft, abused heart for too long and now he has finally toughened the edges of his shattered, duct-taped, glued-together soul into something stronger. Into a soul that is worth relying on, rather than having to rely on.
He’s tried to keep tabs on their children over the years - knowing that his spring goddess would do none of that. They were both silent for some time, their boys, but eventually Takei began rustling at the more well-worn corners of Beqanna. Trekk resisted the urge to shoulder his son’s sorrows in the field, when he had screamed to the sky, but the dun mare had been there for comfort in his stead.
Daemron still remains dormant and ignorant of life.
Her splash startles his thoughts. He’d been drinking peacefully at the bend of the river when the loud sounds of water moving and the ripples of the water disturbed brought his head up rapidly. She surfaces, like a water nymph, like a diamond from the mine, like a spring goddess. He is quiet.
He is so, so quiet.
Trekk’s feathers shuffle against his thin sides for a moment. Normally, the large festering wound on his right hip would be bothering him, crying for an itch against a tree. It says nothing, cries nothing, wants for nothing.
And then, “Noori?”
@[Noori]