"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
Minds are powerful things. Capable of immense calculations, holders of all the knowledge you could care to possess. They also have a certain talent for self preservation. Whether we like it or not. I had been in denial for... as long as I'd been back, it seemed. Every symptom, every discomfort, they could all be attributed to the damage and resulting strains of healing I'd been experiencing. Aches, pains, nausea. Even the sensation that my skin didn't fit quite right. Somehow I'd managed to convince myself that nothing further was amiss than having touched the brink of death and come back. You'd think that would be enough.
On a day that dawned cold and clear, I realized I'd been lying to myself. With good reason, maybe, but it was an unwanted discovery nonetheless. From the moment my eyes opened, something felt off. Lucky, then, that I was living so far from the world. The way I was feeling, the next horse I saw was liable to walk away with bruises. Much as I wanted him near, maybe it was just as well that Cas was away these last few days.
This rocky cliff had been my ivory tower while I recovered my strength, safe from the danger of a changing world. Soon, I'd be well enough to return and see for things for myself. Beqanna had become disrupted while I'd been in my death-sleep. The very geography had shifted as once dormant lands rose again, and my sons had melted into the chaos. I could only hope that their paths would be good ones, and that they'd find their way back to me some day.
I had paced the length and width of my craggy haven a hundred times over by the time midmorning sunlight reached me. The warmth was welcome, but did little to ease the restlessness I'd woken up with. Only when the first pain rippled through my abdomen did I cease my frenetic motion.
So it was true. Klaudius had left me more than scars and memories that day. Against all odds a piece of him had taken, and survived to make itself known. The latest insult in a saga full of them.
It was a familiar ache. I'd felt it when I'd birthed Kwartz in the shadows of Ischia, not knowing what he'd grow to be. Again, when his half brothers joined the world. I loved each of my children as well as I knew how, hoping I could make things right in their worlds, even if I couldn't fix mine. As they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Now I stood shivering and alone, waiting for the instinctive thrall that would herald this newest babe. I had been excited when my sons were born. Alone as I had been at their deliverances, they'd been been conceived in joy, breathlessly awaited gifts. That wasn't something I could claim today. Today my body clenched and my breath caught in waves, all for a child I didn't want, by a man who wished me only ill, while the one who's children I did want harbored me.
Tears pricked in the corners of my eyes as another spasm washed through me. Was this too much to ask of him? He had taken care of me, dead or alive. And even as I dreaded facing it, I wanted him to be here with me. My selfish heart wanted his touch to distract me, his warmth to sooth me. From the day we'd met and done our best to kill each other, he'd ignited something deeper than any lust I'd felt before. That had to mean something, but everyone has their limit. Maybe this bastard would be his. Maybe it was mine.
And there's a lesson waiting to be learned the firestarters always get the burns and the good guys never get the girl
She never really speaks of it, any more.
Or thinks about it. Truth is, she doesn't want to - truth is, she wants to hide it away and never think of it again. She'd nearly killed herself back then, not wanting the life that had involuntarily been planted there, to root. Llowell was a pretty kid but, it was better for her that he was old enough to roam the world on his own. That he wasn't always there. For her to see, how much he looked like his father.
Svedka had been there for her, at least. A shoulder to cry on, a friend who promised to keep her safe. The baby should have been his. In the end, she didn't need him now as much as she had then, result of his own absence, his lion, but he'd been there when she needed him - did this sentence make sense, she's not that sure any more. Point is, no woman should go about this on her own.
The timing was perfect, or perfectly wrong, call it what you want. Ilma hadn't visited Nerine in what feels like ages; she didn't need to, knowing their alliance was strong, and they were neighbours, so it had always felt like tomorrow would be just as fine as today. She also had not wanted to be a burden on Breckin in her new role, letting the younger woman find her way, by herself. Now, the lands had shifted and a sickness threatened both their old homes - a visit was so long overdue.
She never found the spotted woman, however. Instead, the sunlight-winged mare finds another familiar face, even if crooked in birth pains. Ilma nears her carefully, and, with shock determines that the pearlescent mare's wing is broken. How did she even get up here? Did she have a bad landing? But no time - she's in labour. Again a mystery yet to be solved but, again - no time.
"Sabra?" she calls softly, but the woman is spasming, and so the white mare nears and lowers her head to touch the other woman's neck, a soothing move she hopes. Ilma's amber gaze goes from right - Sabra's face - to left - a contracting belly - and she knows what's at stake. What she doesn't know is how much this woman doesn't want her child to exist - as much as Ilma hadn't wanted her own second.
But time has passed and what's done is done; now is just a time to be here for her and get the hard part over with.
and shooting stars cannot fix the world
@[Sabra]
Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
11-19-2018, 03:12 PM (This post was last modified: 11-19-2018, 03:13 PM by Castile.)
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
His lungs are on fire, his breaths like razor blades scraping down his throat. It doesn’t stop him, however, because nothing will. Amid his desperate traveling, Castile is certain to return to Sabra and nurture her as he had these past few months. His routine has been established and so it’s nearly effortless and automatic to shift his body and soar toward Nerine. He ignores the fatigue that sinks into his muscles and weighs him down, trying to take advantage of the wind at his back to propel him. Despite how much faster it would be to travel as his predatory counterpart, he finds it exhausting to shift.
Please, don’t let him be infected.
The possibility falters his smooth flight for a single heartbeat, but when his eyes find Sabra collapsed with Ilma nearby, he, without hesitation, descends.
What he didn’t expect was to see Sabra approaching delivery. Confusion clouds his eyes the moment he alights, stumbling a couple steps exhaustedly. When he speaks, it’s with a labored breath as he devours the space among them. ”Sabra,” he rasps with furrowed brows before his curiosity guides his mismatched eyes to Hyaline mare. ”Ilma,” they haven’t seen each other since he returned, heartbroken and confused by what was to come. Since then, he has changed.
He has murdered.
He has a poisoned mind.
He is angrier as he loses grip on the life he so desperately wanted.
”Hope you’re well,” he decides to say, sparing her from his aggression due to their past meeting. Her heart is large, much larger than his could ever be. With uncertainty, Castile’s eyes darkly flash before falling to Sabra, piecing together what should have been impossible. This child isn’t his. There’s no feasible way. They haven’t coupled since the evening their twins were conceived. A primal growl threatens to vibrate through him, but he swallows it down and instead sharply asks, ”Whose is it?”
Hooves clatter on the stoney ground, drawing my attention away from my own anguish. The steps are too light to be the dragon stallion, and if that wasn't enough to give me pause, then the effervescent glow that precedes my guest certainly is. Suddenly my dim residence is illuminated by a mare bathed in white light. An angel, surely, for how else could she know my name? She touches my neck softly, and my chest aches as the muscles of my belly harden again.
"Take this from me. Please. I...AH! Please! I know I haven't done anything to deserve your help. I know." My voice falls into a tiny note of fear and pain as the contraction runs its course. The pressure that has been building all morning is growing too intense to ignore and I drop to my knees as another contraction chases the last. Tears that have been threatening now begin to spill out, leaving silver tracks down my cheeks. Between spasms I hear the sharpness of landing footsteps again, heavier than before. The rhythm is the one I've grown intimately familiar with.
My heart leaps as the familiar splashed face comes into view, only to fall with realization. Something is wrong. He's winded. Castile, my unbreakable Castile, is winded and stumbling. My focus internalizes for another long moment, and I can only breath as he greets my angel. My next comprehension is the stoney expression he's fixed me with this. This is wrong. This is all wrong. He should be anxious but excited, I should be caught up in anticipation, not dread. This should be his baby. And he knows it.
My eyes meet his as my defilement replays itself. "His. Before he stabbed me but after he tore my wing, he... he did this." I can't stand the way he's looking at me. Like I willingly allowed this. Like I betrayed him. My breathing is growing more erratic, its getting close to time. The pain is incredible. "Cas, believe me. Please. I didn't want this. You're mine as I'm yours, and I would never choose another over you, I swear." My voice is rough with misery, vision blurring. I'm breathing too hard, too fast, head feeling light with the beginnings of hyperventilation.
Like fire in my hips I can feel the contractions begin to produce meaning. If I wasn't already in labor, the stress might have been enough to trigger it. As it was, we were all about to witness the culmination of my abuse. Cas and his ire would have to wait until afterward. Now it was time to strain and push and give life to the one who almost died with me.
11-25-2018, 03:07 PM (This post was last modified: 11-28-2018, 01:17 PM by Ilma.)
Ilma
And there's a lesson waiting to be learned the firestarters always get the burns and the good guys never get the girl
Sabra... a sparkly mare, delusional in the river. Former queen, believing herself a failure at the time, and ill, so ill - she had nearly drowned just from trying to get a drink. Ilma remembers the day clearly; it had been the day on which she had decided to take her daughter out of the kingdom and accustom her to exploring the world - instead she'd had to send the winged girl back in haste, to look for Solace.
Ilma had hardly paid any attention to the lavender figure whom had briefly appeared that day, and she would not know it is the same man that had come back for her and... gifted Sabra with this soon-to-be-born foal. But it does concern her now, how she is received - similarly broken gaze, and her voice unsteady and wavering. Ilma stirs for a moment - then her gaze hardens. "First things first, Sabra. Lie still. I can't take what's not born." she says, gently but with an undertone that doesn't accept denial.
There is not much time for Sabra to do so, however. A familiar winged figure approaches; the man who called himself a monster. It seems he's found a beauty to love, but - oh, he doesn't handle it well. Not at all, he doesn't. It's wrong. His tone is too accusatory, and when Sabra tries to explain, it's clear to Ilma why the opalescent mare had asked Ilma just now to take it away. This child is unwanted.
She looks to Castile. "It should have been yours?" she questions, then shakes her head. Stepping forward, she comes between the broken mare and the splashed male to look him in the eye. "You still can be the child's father. Family is more than blood. But Sabra is not to blame, and she doesn't need your judgement right now. So if you can't say anything nice today - then you get to say nothing at all."
She doesn't await his answer, and quickly turns back to the mare on the ground, ignoring what ever fire he spews (oh, if only she knew). "Breathe, Sabra. You can do this. We'll see about the rest later." Her tone is soft and low, the warmth returned to it, and she finds a place on the mare's head to touch softly. "You'll get through this. Slow and steady, girl. Deep breath. In. Out. There you go." Not that it's the mare's first time - it's too quick a process for that, she notices. But Sabra seems to need the reassurance of normalcy right now, if this was anything normal at all; normalcy and repetitive, pre-practised, steady movements.
Birthing should leave her no room to think it over, right now.
Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
(It isn’t ours)
Castile peers down at Sabra with an unwavering stare.
(Kill it)
She pleads and she gropes for forgiveness. The child wasn’t consensual. It’s the product of rape.
(It will only be a reminder)
A step brings him closer, a looming giant, a murderer.
(Destroy it)
The whirl of his thoughts is interrupted when Ilma intervenes, placing herself between him and Sabra. A vehement gleam in his eyes surfaces and fixates on her. ”Yes,” he growls in retaliation, the primal nature firing to life inside him. Instead, his victim will live on through Sabra. Just when Castile thought the travesty had entirely ended, it’s spurred back to life; this time, however, it has a heartbeat and it shares blood with Sabra. It stirs in her womb, wanting release.
Another contraction wracks through her body.
Castile spares her the briefest of glances, but it’s Ilma’s brash manner that holds his attention most, demanding his focus to remain tunneled on her. Last she had seen him, he was broken. He was lost and he was drowning in anguish.
But he has changed so very much.
Then, he may have backed down and submitted to her chaste, but now? A foreboding growl erupts from him, nearly shaking his entire core as their eyes heatedly meet. ”The child of a damn rapist and murderer is not mine!” His snarling tone is far more perilous than either have seen or heard. Scales ripple across his body, fleetingly, and his mismatched eyes flash darkly. ”I will never be its father,” the fact of the matter is spat venomously. The truth marinates among them. It’s painful. Like knives, it buries deep into them all, twisting agonizingly. ”Never tell me how to handle my family.” Ilma had a soft part of his heart, a rarity outside of his lovers, but it hardens to steel in this moment.
His instincts are clouding him.
(Kill it)
A hiss slips as Castile steps back and away to allow them space. Like a starving shark, he circles and paces around them in wait. Sabra is the one to grasp his attention now. They lock stares occasionally, but he only nods in a silent encouragement. He cannot – will not – blame her. This isn’t what she wanted, that much he knows. To first face death and now this? He cares for her, for her safety and comfort, and for their own two sons – but this? This abomination? Castile snorts at the thought. He could very well leave and take Ilma’s advice, but his heart keeps him near to Sabra, refusing to abandon her again.
11-27-2018, 07:01 PM (This post was last modified: 11-27-2018, 07:08 PM by Sabra.)
At the white woman's prompting I turn my attentions back toward the matter at hand, trying desperately to ignore the vicious words whirling around me. Still, things get through. The reality of my situation makes itself painfully clear as I feel the cramping agony reach it's zenith. I force control on my breathing, in and out in steady rhythm, biting back the screams I want to make. There is no room for that now, not when the very air is clogged with grim energy.
One final moment of exquisite pain, a rush of hot fluid and its over. Blood slicks my thighs and smears the small form that's slipped between them. Groaning softly I rise to my feet once more, sweat drying on my flanks. With a mistrustful glance at the pacing stallion, I drop my head to examine the tiny being stirring at my feet. Pastel toned, as my children tend to be. The colors become clearer as I clean away the residue of birth, and if things hadn't been damned before, they certainly were now.
A girl. I'd wanted a daughter for so long, a beautiful child to stay by me when my sons were gone on their own ways. The flare of joy melts into despair as I take in her coat. The fluffy softness of her infant fur is as clearly purple as my eldest son's, as obvious a marker of their paternity as any could wish. The pale rosy tufts of mane and tail echo my own points, and as the moisture dries from her body I can see that she shimmers like new snow. Tiny down-covered wings decorate her thin shoulders, full of promise. "Miela," I whisper, heart in my throat. "May life be sweeter to you than it has been to me." She is a beautiful, perfectly formed babe that peers up at me with steady, blue-grey eyes. Her newborn scent fills my head, and I know that as much as I hate the thought of her sire, I can't hate this tiny girl. I want to. Gods, how I want to. It would make the next moments so much simpler.
"Castile, calm yourself. You must listen to what I'm about to say, because I'm only going to say it once." My undamaged wing spreads partway to obscure the child from view. Tearing my gaze from her I instead fix it on the painted man scowling towards us, jaw set in firm defiance. "Klaudius sired her. We cannot escape that fact, as much as I wish we could. But she is here and she is mine. Do you love me? I can't believe that you don't, not when I've seen the lengths you've gone with my care. You never abandoned me. Don't do so now. She's right. You have a chance here that you didn't have with the boys, to be a better father than blood could have ever provided her." I leave the words hanging between us, fettered with an unspoken promise. This is the only option I will allow. If he wants me, it will be with this sparkling girl at my side.
I am standing between her and them, knowing what I'm asking of him, and unwilling to let him act on his feelings. I can see it in his eyes, the frustration and anger that rouses the flames of his being. I do not want to choose between them. But if he should force it, I know that I can make just one choice. I can't fail the glittering girl at my side, not like I failed the brothers who preceded her.
@[Castile] @[Ilma] @[Miela]
Life through death - growth through decay. Like so many have been born into Beqanna, she is no different. She emerges from the womb, covered in blood and amniotic fluid. A living, breathing creation of her mother and father, knowing not the circumstances of what brought her here. She squirms, breaking free of the sac that homed her for many moons now, and (like so many before her) attempts to stand.
'Up.' Instincts tell her, so she rises onto four wobbly legs. Flump! She falls back again, snorting with frustration, wishing her legs would just work. Again, she stands, and she wobbles, and she...flumps! back to the floor. Lavender ears pin back and the determined little filly again rises. She shakes, she wobbles but this time, she stays up. Carefully, she teeters towards her mother. 'Drink.' Instincts tell her...has she always been this hungry?
Mother looks at her, eyes welled with tears. The filly peers up at her, and tilts her head in wonder. Miela. Mother says. A name, for her! May life be sweeter to you than it's been to me. A statement lost on the foal - maybe, in time, she would understand.
Children know nothing of the weight of life's burdens - no, not yet do they know the heartaches, loss, betrayal, and bloodlust that comes from the adult world. She is innocence, in every sense of the word; from the gentle pastel shimmer of her bodice, to the way she looks at each of the horses around her with the twinkling cerulean gaze, unsure of why their words lay so harshly upon her ears. Her mother's wing rests protectively upon her side, and Miela takes this opportunity to drink. Her body rests comfortably upon Sabra's hind leg as she nurses, the words of her elders lost to the wind as she drinks.
And there's a lesson waiting to be learned the firestarters always get the burns and the good guys never get the girl
She's not at all pleased with whatever sad excuse for her former friend this person is - but she focuses (with a lot of restraint) on Sabra instead. The mare's birthing is quick enough, and despite the circumstances, at least the birth seems to be normal. A purplish filly falls out, glittering, and Ilma is amazed by that little fact. She hadn't quite seen a glittering horse before... no wait, she had! But that was long ago and she had been drunk so she couldn't be exactly sure.
Miela fits with Sabra though. Glittering and pearlescent, they don't seem to differ too much. Except that she has been sired by someone completely different than Castile, which was obvious. Instead of a stocky baroque figure, the girl was and would be, slim - oh and purple.
Then there's the pacing Castile, obviously triggered in some way that this child isn't his. Ilma's burning amber eyes stare the rampaging man down. She might have said more about his behaviour, but Sabra holds her ground well enough. It is her child. Sometimes a woman just comes with pre-made children. That's a fact, and he'll have to take it or leave it.
She had been lucky to have a friend-or-lover who had accepted her wholly - Llowell included. If Cas couldn't do the same... why, she might just start to believe his claims that he was a monster.
But either way, she will not leave Sabra's side until he either mans up of leaves the scene.
and shooting stars cannot fix the world
@[Sabra] @[Castile] @[Miela]
Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
He is tired, exhausted really. Castile’s muscles are screaming underneath the surface, wanting reprieve. Yet his stubbornness prevents the display of his weakness. They would chastise him, render him useless and feeble as the infection spreads through his bloodstream.
(Survival of the fittest)
Hunters don’t show weakness.
In his chest, his heart is feverishly drumming. There is anticipation – even dread – for the child that is to come.
(Kill it)
(Only the strongest lines survive)
A snarl curls his lips as Ilma disregards him, turning her back onto someone that could easily hurt her (kill her). She is so focused on Sabra and the looming delivery, but Castile notices how her eyes lift every time he paces in front of her with his steely, primal stare. They lock on each other each time, but he doesn’t yield. He doesn’t look away until she does. Ilma is in the way of Sabra, of the abomination, but Castile still manages to glimpse the lavender child when it spills from its mother’s womb, slick with blood and fluid. Castile growls in response. The stench of the birth floods him, his mind buzzing with the instinct to kill it, but now both women were standing guard and refusing him passage. Stomp out the competitive bloodline, his mind screams, blocking out a great deal of what Sabra demands of him. Laced with agitation, he continues to pace back and forth, his eyes rarely straying from the foal until a painful reminder is stabbed into him.
You have a chance here that you didn’t with the boys, she says.
The words echo.
They resonate.
They sting.
A hiss, reptilian in nature, slips from him, unbidden and enraged. Castile’s eyes flash as he desperately grips onto reality and his judgment. ”You want a constant reminder of him?! Every time you look at her, you will only remember what he did to you. She is the child of someone that raped and murdered you, Sabra!” He can’t remember being this angry, not at her. Their battle in the Alliance hadn’t even been this heated, or emotional. She stands defensively over her child, an instinct that he cannot fathom or accept. His eyes narrow vehemently. ”Be my damned guest then,” he snarls with an irritated flick of his tail, ”I’m not her father.” His jaws clap together at both women as an abrupt punctuation to his decision before he takes flight and disappears among the clouds to find his children.
