"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
The early morning light has just begun to stretch over the horizon when she finds herself making her way through the meadow. New grass has begun to coat the land, turning the monotonous hues of winter into the vibrant emerald of new life. The rising sun washes the land in glorious oranges and pinks, a lovely sight even to the most jaded of souls.
But she is not here to admire the views. Leisure has never been a strong suit of hers. When she arrives in the meadow, she is not here to see the way the dew sparkles in the early light, softened by the mist that still hangs low to the earth. No, she is here for business.
She is here for vengeance.
She is not prescient, but when she discovers her opportunity, she seizes it, no matter how long it takes. And though the woman she now seeks was only a vehicle of deliverance in the death of her son, she cannot let it pass unremarked.
It is not difficult to find her, especially given her particular abilities. Even without them, she would have found a way. Her coat is damp with mist and dew as she makes her way quite deliberately towards the young mare. Her icy blue gaze fixes upon her as she considers the rather unassuming figure with a dispassionate expression. A force necessary to hide the truth of the emotions that roil in her gut. “You are much less conspicuous than I was expecting,” she says by way of greeting as she settles next to her, keeping a wary distance between them.
devils speak of the ways in which she'll manifest; angels bleed from the tainted touch of my caress.
Ajatar, for all her physical power, is not a particularly daunting figure. She is average height, average build - maybe even on the slim side - with a look that is neither beautiful nor plain. Her smokey black coat is a dime a dozen amongst the whore that is her father, and the scales that slide up her legs are no more exciting than any other physical appendage in Beqanna. In a land of magicians and shapeshifters and mimicers she is nothing but a plain girl, looking lost and forlorn after a sad but expected event happened to her.
Boo hoo, really.
It's no wonder she is often underestimated. Her mother, with those devilish eyes and that maniac like smile, was the only one to see Ajatar for what she was. A wolf in sheeps clothing, something dangerous and perverse, magic gone wrong. When two magicians come together they create something so disgusting and wrong, isn't that the case? Magic shifted, transformed, perverted?
That's how Ajatar felt.
Her lonesome eyes slide over the mare in front of her, not recognizing her at all. Why should she? Why would she place the mare in front of her as a mother of her oldest and (truly) only friend? She clears her throat, a sorry excuse for being prepared for conversation. "Excuse me?" she asks, for despite all that's happened it's not quite in her nature (yet) to be unkind.
She does not expect the younger woman to recognize her. How could she? They have never before met. Certainly her son looks nothing like her. No, she does not resemble the blue iridescence of Longclaw, or his strength and heft. She is unassuming, of average height, her frame lanky and slender. Attractive enough, with a coat of dusky pewter laced by white, but in no way beautiful. No bright colors to make her stand out above the rainbow of horses that call Beqanna home. And in that one small way more similar to the mare beside her than her brightly hued children.
She too, is often underestimated. She would never dare do such a thing to Ajatar. Indeed, she has seen the destruction the woman can bring. But it is not a thing she particularly wishes to dwell upon in this moment. Especially as she needs all her wits about her.
“You were friends with my son, Longclaw, were you not?” she continues, answering Ajatar’s question with a question of her own. One she already knows the answer to, but the woman before her hardly needs to know that.
For a moment, she wonders if her companion grieves too. Her eyes sharpen as she considers the other mare, her face a mask of marble. It would be so easy to blame her for his death. So easy to call it done here and say good enough. But she knows there is far more here than meets the eye. She would not be so foolish as to only scratch the surface. Too many have made that mistake with her.
Instead, she digs. Seeking. She is not yet certain what she will find, but she will recognize it when she sees it. Of that, she has no doubt.
devils speak of the ways in which she'll manifest; angels bleed from the tainted touch of my caress.
The grief that hits Ajatar at the mention of his name almost eclipses the rest of her sentence - Son. She stands before the mare that gave birth to Ajatar's only friend, the one she killed. No, she does not blame her mother -she blames herself. If she wasn't so perverse, wasn't such a monster, she wouldn't have been a weapon for her mother to wield. If she hadn't found friendship in the blue stallion he wouldn't have tried to intervene. He would be alive.
Ajatar feels all this with the weight of a girl who doesn't know how to mask her feelings. She is still a girl, after all, and Longclaw was a dear friend despite his shortcomings. She remembers him so fondly, in a way that only a child can remember someone. Her face breaks then, tears well up behind her wide eyes and spill down her cheeks.
"Oh, I am so sorry," she begins, a rush of words that fall unbidden from her lips. "I tried to stop her, I wasn't strong enough...it's all my fault. All of it. And you! Lost a son... I can't..." The tears fall too fast for her to finish. She makes no move for solace from the mare, she expects nothing from her. Ajatar knows she is evil for what she's done, what she couldn't prevent, and she's accepted that fate and burden.
The weight of grief is enormous. A heavy burden that never quite leaves one in peace. Heartfire has become far too familiar with its weight, though she has stubbornly refused to bend beneath it. Her own sorrow remains contained, her tears unshed beneath the iron control she has imposed upon herself. Instead, she has redirected her own sadness into anger and purpose. An endless fuel that burns through her. That had brought her to this meadow.
But the young woman’s face breaking beneath the heaviness of her words puts another chip in the steadfast armor Heartfire had wrapped about herself. To see that grief reflected in another soul is harder than she could have expected. Especially when reflected in the face of the weapon that had slain her child. It is easy, in that moment, to see that Ajatar is far more than a weapon. Her own mother uses her so easily as such, never once stopping to consider the soul beneath.
Heartfire, for all her indifferent demeanor and ruthless motivation, is not in fact heartless. If she could believe that Ajatar had acted on her own volition, it would have been far easier to hate her. But she had been used as poorly as her son had.
Despite her anger, despite the fact she should hate this woman, she cannot. Instead, she shifts closer. Gently, she reaches out, brushing her muzzle along the dark skin of her neck before drawing her close, offering comfort. She could not pretend indifference in that moment, no matter how much she might wish to.
She allows her her grief, remaining silent as she presses against her in surprisingly warm solidarity. Finally, after a lengthy silence, she murmurs softly, “I think you do yourself a disservice, taking the blame on yourself.”
devils speak of the ways in which she'll manifest; angels bleed from the tainted touch of my caress.
Ajatar flinches at the sudden maternal touch, something she was not familiar with. Harmonia's touches were all rancid, poison, with hints of malice underlying her gestures. There was nothing friendly about the way Harmonia treated Ajatar, that much is obvious in the way she nearly sinks into the ground to avoid Heartfire's touch. But the way the mare moves - slow, assured, her voice liquid - and Ajatar finds herself relaxing into the feeling.
Is this was it's like to be cared for? She wouldn't know, shouldn't know.
And even this touch is poison - but she doesn't know this.
She relaxes and lets the mare caress her with her soft touch, cooing the words into her ears that Ajatar did not truly think of before. She is confused - her brow knits, her mouth screws up a bit, she is unsure how to process this line of thought. "Who else would be to blame?" she asks, taking a step back ,her wide eyes regarding the mare with curiosity. "I wasn't strong enough to stop it, it's my gift...my curse," she corrects.
It is clear in the way the young woman flinches from her touch that she is unused to such kindnesses. That she has never been offered a gentle touch, not even by her own mother. There is a sadness in it. In that lack. Though, in this world, it is a story too often repeated. A cancer that has embedded itself into the heart of Beqanna.
In a way, it too had played its hand in the death of her son.
But it is not poison she offers. No, it is healing. And sometimes, all healing needs is a little purpose. And that purpose is the only thing she intends to leave behind today. To give a little heart and courage back to a woman who had so long been denied it. (It’s easy to tell herself this. Easy to say this is not on entirely self-serving mission, though in truth it very much is.)
Ajatar’s confusion is palpable when she finally regains her control and withdraws, peering at Heartfire with a wrinkled brow. Heartfire’s blue eyes match hers steadily, the frankness in her gaze unsettling. “Strength is not gained overnight. Even children must practice before they can walk.” She pauses briefly, considering. “Or even before they can run.”
She stares steadily at her for a long moment, studying her still innocent features. Because whatever else she might have done, there is still far too much innocence stubbornly clinging to the scaled mare. “I am not the only one who knows this.” She pauses again, this time more weightily. “I think your lack of control and strength has been taken advantage of, and I think you have been poorly used.”
“But it does not have to be a curse if you do not wish it to be,” she finishes with meaning. If there is anyone who knows a thing or two about the dangerous ability of destructive power, it would be Heartfire.
devils speak of the ways in which she'll manifest; angels bleed from the tainted touch of my caress.
Used.
The word feels strange on her tongue, mulling the thought over before saying it aloud. "Used," she echoes, confused at first but then - again, this time with meaning - "Used." There's a finality with the way she says it, a switch that clicks on in her brain. Her mother used her. She took the power that Ajatar had and unleashed it without a proper funnel, without a proper safeguard. She remembers Romek, so long ago, telling her the same thing. Learn control, learn control! and again, her grandsire Deimos, who looked at her like she was the devil himself. She is a plague waiting to be unleashed.
Ajatar had no control over anything, least of all her life.
"I have been used," she agrees, and now the word sits right against her lips. It's comforting, almost, to know that maybe Longclaw's death solely her fault. Maybe, maybe, her mother can share a part of the blame? Surely if she'd been someone else's child the entire disaster wouldn't have happened.
Surely.
"How is it not a curse, if it was used to kill your son? My only friend? I can't think of a way in which this" - she allows a small semblance of control, the leaking of the poison from her veins to kill the flower next to her, watching it wither and die in a similar fashion to Longclaw before he imploded. "Is anything but death and destruction."
As though her words have switched a flip inside the young woman’s skull, she sees understanding in her youthful features. A sudden recognition of the truth of her words. Whatever else Heartfire may be, she has always been unfailingly honest. She may omit certain truths, but she has never needed to utter an outright lie. In a world like Beqanna, lies are too easily discerned. So, she had learned to manipulate the truth to suit her whims just as she had learned to manipulate sight.
Her lips curve into the faintest of smiles as she watches Ajatar. Though the gesture lacks true warmth, there is an odd kind of encouragement there. An acknowledgement of her understanding, of her discovery about the truth of her life. And that recognition is the seed planted. Heartfire has grown familiar enough with the nature of emotion to know Ajatar would grasp at these words. Would find comfort in knowing she could wrest control of her own life if she so chose.
Her questions are to be expected however. Destruction is not a gift everyone can appreciate. She thinks Ajatar can learn that appreciation, but she would also need reason to do so. For a weighty moment, Heartfire merely considers her scaled companion, pale blue eyes inscrutable. Her gaze falters only briefly, to glance at the destruction the girl had wrought with her deadly gift. There is no fear there, however.
Heartfire knows she can be just as deadly if the need calls.
“It is a curse only if you believe it is a curse,” Heartfire finally answers, her voice soft, thoughtful. “Because by that token,” briefly the roan mare let’s loose her own control, eyes shifting to passively watch the flower break apart into dust. Into nothingness, leaving only a bare patch where it should have stood, “this too is nothing more than a curse.” Her lips tilt up then, a slightly more visible smile. “For me though, this has been my protection. My salvation. It’s true that it causes destruction, but it is also my freedom.”
devils speak of the ways in which she'll manifest; angels bleed from the tainted touch of my caress.
It should not be a surprise to the scaled girl that the mare also has abilities. Everyone in Beqanna seemed to have something these days, from simple immortality to the ability to summon a plague. Yet, Ajatar's eyes grow wide when she sees the flower dissolve into nothingness. She should know better, but she does not - her eyes widen into that childish look again, reminding the mare she's little more than a girl used like a woman. She'll need to grow up, at this rate she'll spend her whole life being walked on.
Like now.
But Ajatar doesn't know the mare's ulterior motives - how could she? To her she is a woman who sought her out because of the death of her son. She probably wanted an apology, she probably wanted a lot of things. But for now Ajatar can only think over what she's seen, her glance flitting from the flower to the mare. What does this mean? What does any of it mean?
"I'm getting better at it," she admits quietly, letting loose another small strand to suffocate the next flower. No blisters pop up on her from these close, small encounters. It's the bigger ones that injure her. She watches the flower die as she pulls back her power and tucks it back away. Maybe if she learned to control her temper she would have complete control but, for now, that's beyond her control. "You really think I can be free?" she asks - a loaded question.
