"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
there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail the dream of about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream
Time grew strange in his pregnancy, seemed to extend forever. He began to wonder if it was all inside his head – the shifting creature, his expanding belly, all of it. Truth is, he knows little of the duration of pregnancies, his only other child having been conceived in a dream state and born by him. He birthed his second son alone in a labor that felt like days, delivered a golden child with the monster’s eyes, and he wept, and wept, unable to stop himself. He loves the child immediately, the same way he had Abysm, though he feels so strangely empty when he stands, no longer keeping life inside of him, that same life now rising on shaking legs. He names the boy Cringe, without exactly knowing why. There’s something about him that makes Rapt a little nervous. Maybe it’s just how he looks like his father. He loves him, though. That’s all that matters. It’s not long after this that the world succumbs to chaos, visions of all sorts, word of a plague. The child is too small, too frail to make the journey to the safe lands. It’s a struggle to find his son milk, whatever horrible magic had led him to conceiving had not extended to anything else, leaving Rapt to beg. It works, mostly, though he’s constantly nervous that his son will go hungry, and he’s far more preoccupied with this particular fear than the more abstract idea of a plague. They wander together, father and son, and today they’re at the river. Cringe is fascinated by the water, pawing at it with one small hoof, and Rapt watches vigilantly. The sun’s out, today, and it’s quite lovely, and for a time he forgets the world is wrought with sickness, only stares at his impossible son.
but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever
For a brief period of time, she had nothing to lose. They’d killed her father, the only thing she’d ever really had, and Noah had been lost. But fate had led her to stumble into the new land the fae had brought for them, and she had struck a deal with the others who had considered laying claim to it – and now she had nobody, but she has something. Long days and long nights have been spend mapping every inch of the place she now calls home (the first place she’s called home!) but in the middle of one of those nights, staring up at the stars, the little red mare had realized that someday, Wolfbane and Lepis and their people would go home.
And she would be alone.
So Noah sets off, leaving the safety of Brilliant Pampas for the day. Why shouldn’t she? After all, she has nothing to lose. That is the gift the dark god had given them – she is immune to this new sickness ravaging Beqanna, and almost healed from the one that she’d caught at the bottom of the ocean. She still has the sniffles, the occasional coughing fit, but it is a far cry from the fevered delirium that had gripped her after her unwise sojourn into the depths of hell to retrieve a piece of Pangea. She’s healthy enough not to strike fear into the hearts of strangers.
She can’t bring herself to go to the Meadow, where she and Rhonen had lived for so long. And the field seems too bold, for a first foray into the world of meeting new people. So she heads instead for the River, because she knows how to get there. Slim wings carry her over the expanse of land that falls away beneath her, the sun on the tops of her wings is warm and pleasant. She lands on a flat stretch overlooking the water, and looks around. Her eyes catch on the stallion and his foal, and her interest is piqued; this, at least, seems safe.
She approaches on quiet steps, a shyness written into her body language that is well reflected on the wane smile she offers. “Hello,” the words come easy but whisper-quiet. “I’m Noah.”
there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail the dream of about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream
He had never had a home, not truly, home was a series of places with a series of faces (a woman who dreamed him into loving her, a monster, a woman victim whom he had brought before the monster). He’d been born to the deserts, to a kingdom that has long since crumbled, his own father a fleeting prince, but the shifting sands had never felt like home, his blood had never called him there.
He doesn’t know what his son will call home – he was born in the meadow, but has known only the nomadic lands. He hopes there will be belonging in his son’s future, but he cannot make promises.
(A dark part of him wonders what hope there is, for the illicit child of a monster and his worshipper. But oh, he loves him so.)
He sees the red mare before Cringe does, ears pricking forward. She does not seem a threat, wings folded at her sides, body passive, so he relaxes. Cringe has noticed by then, muzzle flecked with river-water, and the boy smiles and greets her before Rapt has a chance to.
“Hi,” says Cringe, “I like your wings.”
Rapt intervenes then, stepping closer, keeping himself between her and his son. Not that he thinks her a threat, but it’s instinct, such possessiveness. He smiles, dips his head to her.
“Hello,” he says, “I’m Rapt, and this is Cringe. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Cringe echoes, a hesitant smile and a glance at his father, made more nervous now that Rapt stands between them. Rapt touches him briefly, a silent reassurance that the boy dud nothing wrong, and then his gaze returns to the red mare – Noah – watching her curiously.
but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever
The stranger is protective of his son – as he should be. Noah understands – she was rarely allowed out of her father’s sight, certainly he was not found of her greeting strangers. The difference of course is that Rapt simply steps between her and the boy, cautious; Rhonen would have been sharp words and sharper smiles, snarls and teeth and fury on the outside to prevent anyone from getting close to them. This seems less violent – caution without the anger.
“Hi,” she says back to the golden child, lowering her head to look less threatening. “I like your color,” she responds to him in kind, admiring the bright color and shimmery quality.
The stallion takes a moment to introduce them, and she nods and offers him a shy smile, somewhat tentative. It was brave to approach the strangers, but overall she’s not a brave creature. Cautious, shy, those are more her buzzwords. But she needs something to keep her going, since it can’t be Rhonen anymore. “It’s nice to meet you,” she tries out the words, hoping they don’t sound as stale as they feel in her mouth. Plain. “Are you from here?”
Not really the dazzling friend-making she was looking for, but it’ll have to do now that the words are already out.
there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail the dream of about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream
Rapt was never good at violence, not directly. It wasn’t his nature, to hurt.
It was his nature to serve, which is how he’s ended up this way, with an impossibly-conceived child and skin wore bare on his knees, that shivering desire to kneel before monster a crawling constant in his skin. He watches as Noah speaks to Cringe, head at his level, and softens further.
She asks of their origins, and Rapt considers how to answer – he’s the distant prince of a dead kingdom, and Cringe is of himself and a monster. No place has felt like home, not truly, and Rapt is content to wander so long as his son is beside him.
“More or less,” he says, then amends, “I was born in Beqanna, but have never been pledged to any kingdom. Most of my time’s been spent in the forest, or the meadow.”
He overexplains, as if she cares precisely which land he calls home. He’s out of practice, with normal conversations, too used to serving, to begging on his knees.
“What about you, Noah? Are you from here?”
but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever
