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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


    the haematoma in your heart; birth, chantale
    #1



    It had been a sin. Such a burden to carry, a sin that was both of rapture and scorn. It was something that was not natural, yet seemed as normal as ever, with the swelling of my frame, the barrel heaving with a seed, a bud, blooming more and more. I had kept myself even more aloof, even more camouflaged in the black umbra of the meadow. Nothing would harm this child, not her creation. I would never allow. And slithers of my soul, what was left of the tattered, wisp of a thing, ached for this child to live, to ascertain the ability to breath, to feel the grass beneath it's little feet, and to breath in the arid scent.

    Unfortunately, the first scent the small thing would smell, was the claret that stained me. A mixture of my own, a mixture of someone else. I did not know who, I did not even see the glimmer of life in their dying eyes, but the need, the thirst, it became far too much. Perhaps it was the child, after all, born of Chantale, it must have had some penchant for lifeblood. I put it down to that, thus, dripping muzzle, white teeth stained pink, trickling with the bittersweet tang as I panted, nostrils heaving alongside blooming lungs. My ebony frame, lithe, had not wintered that well. Bones were tender against my skin, taut in places, nobbled in others. I felt it, this winter's chill had knocked deep, deep down into my bones. Another reason I gave for slathering the blood around my muzzle, tasting the sweet poison on my tongue, and drinking without abandon.

    But alas, I pined for her, my ethereal queen. There she sat, somewhere concealed out of sight, her deadened eyes observing everything. Perhaps it would get lonely sitting on such a throne. But here, here she had a prize, something else, something born from an unnatural conception. Magic. It worked in many different ways, but none quite like the unique conception of life. As if planted by a slither of a seed, it grew, it grew. And in the dark recesses of my mind, doubt had strung, like broken violin strings, over and over again, they played a sad tune. I shivered, the early spring still biting with frostbite, gnawing right down to my marrow. I sashayed, weary steps, feathered limbs ploughing through the earth until I reached a darker spot, out of the way of prying eyes.

    Nothing would take this away from me, nothing.

    I lay, nature running it's course. My knees trembled as I buckled to the floor, strewn out like some ragged corpse. I heaved, other and other again, thrashing limbs against the broken nooks of wood and gnarled trunks. All the while inwardly praying, hoping -- such a fruitless attempt -- that this one would not end up like before, not the seed born of a bachelor's lust. No, this one, this one had to make it. After all, I hadn't brought my fair queen her offering, so this, this had to suffice. And oh did I hope it would.

    The agony did not persist like it had my first time, it was easier somehow, as if the whole conception was easier. Fluid almost, was the small bundle's transition into this world. A crackle, a gasp, and a silent scream, and all was done. There, strewn upon the earth was an ebony mound, encased in the slick shell of life. I felt my dead heart pound, alive now, as I turned and manoeuvred my tired, sticky form, towards the child. I nudged the little thing; a filly, a young girl with eyes as silver as the slither of moon above tonight. I whickered low, my throat ceased with the rust of tiredness and the drying salt of blood. The young girl moved and as she did, I felt relief was over my body like proverbial gooseflesh. She was alive. She had eyes as bright as the moon, and a coat as dark as the night sky. I touched her forehead, christening her, my bloody lips placing a scarlet kiss upon her forehead. 'Vaermina.'



    NYKELN
    the haematoma in your heart, the cancer in your lungs
    vagabond of the meadow


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