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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


    [open]  oh, this my weapon, this my loam; any
    #11

    oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone.

    The world dims around them, and he should wonder at that, but he doesn’t.

    Instead, it is just the two of them: the wine red of him and the rainbow sheen of her and the hush of a forest that has long since become muted. His grey eye are serious, always so serious for a boy of nearly two, and he is quiet, studying her with an intensity that has settled into his body so young, so quickly.

    He wonders if she would understand if he told her about the feel of racing next to the wolves and that ferocious need to become them—to be with them. He wonders if she would understand the way that his heart feels like it may erupt from his chest. Like it would simply take flight on its very own.

    There are so many things he could say to her, but the words don’t come.

    He doesn’t let them.

    So he just watches in silence, feeling the trapped words flutter and flail against his ribcage.

    “This world isn’t so bad,” he finally settles on, and it feels dreadfully inadequate. It feels like cheating, like he’s stolen the truth from her, and he almost feels bad for it. Almost. Instead he just tilts his head and considers her as she comes closer to him, as their world becomes just a little smaller.

    He can smell her here, the feminine softness, that otherworldly dreaminess beneath the surface. He can taste it like the wolves can taste the hunt on their tongue, and he feels a faint edge of hunger.

    “Why shouldn’t you say things like that?” he questions and his voice is harsh, almost cruel—if only because the need to know is so acute he feels like it may split him open. “Why not?"



    @[irisa]
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