"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
We all fall like stars, one moment of glory along the dark night sky and we soon descend, lost within the moment. Tears blind and hearts break, skin burns and bones snap. We are all broken, until the very end, and only then do we beg to be fixed, to be glued together like some broken china doll. I have fallen many times, and still, still my weary wings hold me up, figuratively speaking of course. As though made of glass, I only splinter yet never quite shatter. I am surprised I am still here, still wandering the world as though some sort of burst star stream, having lost it's cause. And it's course.
And my course finds me here, in the autumn baked earth of Beqanna.
My ash mottled skin shivers as the entangle of autumn leaves whips past me. Worn hooves break the flurry of auburn and mauve, causing a multitude of fallen leaves to sashay by my weary limbs, my scarred frame. Each sinew strains, torn beneath my skin. Bones feel brittle, as though glass that has once been blown, and forgotten, left to deteriorate in the sun and the frost. I feel fragile, I feel broken, and most of all, I feel alone.
As the leaves swirl past me, I wonder, I wonder where they are. I wonder what happened to the woman I called mother, the woman that was, but never will be. I wonder many things, and these wonders feel like lead upon my shoulders as I walk across the leaf littered field, kicking at the oranges and browns, causing them to flitter and fall around me. Lost, and as limp as I feel.
I jog every now and again, young limbs aged by more than years alone, kick at the multitude of leaves. I soon slow back to a meagre amble, looking at the dying trees, the falling leaves and the brilliant little songbirds. Swifts and starlings. The longer I watch them, in their flight, together, the more the loneliness etches and ebbs away at my heart, the longer I disappear into my mind and the longer it takes for me to reappear in flesh and bone. Perhaps one day, I will cease to exist, get lost within the line of the stars, lost within space, the thousand nebulas above. Perhaps heaven awaits, but no, no it is not heaven that will open it's pearly gates to me. I am destined for the fiery depths below. My mother had sold me, broken me, damaged me beyond repair. If there was hate in the world, that overflowed goblets and flutes, it would still not amount to the hate the mare feels for me. Her eyes, they still burn right through my flesh and deep into my soul.
I may have escaped her, and her derogatory gaze, but even in a whole new world, I feel her judgement.
Moth-eaten feathers pick up the autumn debris as I go. Collecting remnants of twig and gorse, of forgotten flowers and decaying leaves. I walk towards the riverbank, where I stand, simply, each limb pulling to a creaky halt. Glass-like teal eyes watch the crystalline waters, watch as the ripples distort my reflection. I am worn, worn down to the bone, to the core. How much longer can this go on? How much longer, can I remain, broken and lost within this world, before someone, someone notices me?
The hope is still there, at my feet in pieces. All I must do is pick it up with my shaking hands.
adelphia
i'll miss you like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky
Ramiel is a man grown, now, but sometimes he doesn’t feel so old.
He remembers his childhood so vividly because it is only so recently behind him. He remembers the cold reassurance of his mother’s shoulder as he leaned against her metal side at night. She loved him with the warmth of the summer sun, in stark contrast the way she physically felt. He remembers his father, too. Tiphon had been absent for most of those formative days (and Ramiel still doesn’t understand why his mother had resented him for it – love and its trappings are still concepts that seem just out of reach) but he tries to forget that part. He tries to remember the reunion: the Day the King Came Home. He had first taught his boy what it meant to be a good man. Later, he had taught him what it meant to be a good king in his stoic, strong way.
He’d had a good upbringing compared to others, he knows, and he’s glad for it.
The young grey owes his family everything. And because his family extends beyond shared blood, (to Elysteria and Weir and the others) he means to hold up his end of the bargain by providing for all of them. Today, he moves towards the Field with moderate urgency. Fall is already upon them, the world a shifting kaleidoscope of oranges, reds, and yellows. All too soon, winter will blanket Beqanna. Before it becomes so bitterly cold and the snows fill in the various dips and shallows of the mountainous kingdom, he means to draw in those without a home. Surely there are stragglers existing in the fringe places. They will need the comfort and strength of a larger group – the Dale will provide anything they need in the harsher months: companionship, shelter, and food.
He is only halfway visible, wearing his ghost form as he is accustomed to. It’s the only way he is fully able to use his new talents. And if the need arises to defend himself, he means to be ready. The sunlight filters through the trees, through him and reaches the ground below. It highlights the leaf-litter at his feet, gilding his pathway through the edge of the forest. The field opens in front of him, all tall, dried grass and exposed sky. Horses move slowly through the scene. It’s obvious some are completely lost. Some look wounded, beaten down by life thus far and in waiting for the next round. Still others greet the recruiters with bounding approaches and eager eyes – the ones who know what they want. He’s been here often enough to recognize the different looks. Today, though, he’s not sure which of them he wants to help.
Ramiel moves towards the edge of the field, uninspired by the lot he’s seen. There’s a small river over here, he knows. Not many visit this wilder part of the land. He thinks he’ll settle there for a while until the Field resets itself with a new crop of faces – the turnover was incredibly high here, after all. But the sight of a horse lingering at the banks catches his attention. She’s watching the water go by, the dazzling play of light on its surface, with her back towards him. “Hello, I don’t want to startle you.” The grey stallion moves to stand next to her with some respectable distance between them. He’s young, but he’s learned that most mares appreciate the separation, the consideration for their unfortunate fears. Her eyes look troubled, and his customary smile fades a little because of it. “Are you okay?”
When you lose one sense, the others attune themselves to the world, they become sharper, more prominent. A single drop of a leaf to the ground, was enough to cause my head to stir, my eyes to draw up and twinkle with curiosity. My eyes, they saw much. The way the leaves turned to a beautiful mauve as they skimmed the top of the water, like little boats, they sailed on and on, to another destination, to the end, perhaps. The End, how it felt so final, so rigid in it's property. There was not finality yet, I was certain. Even though the hope was crumbling through my tentatively gripped fingers, it was still there, slivers remained and pressed against my heart, my soul.
I suppose when you lose hope, you lose yourself, and then, then perhaps The End, is far more befitting.
Teal eyes study the water's edge, mottled muzzle lowering and touching the bank of weeds and dying gorse. I picked a few strands, idly chewed, before dropping the morsel back to the earth. Mulching it down with my flinty hooves. I blew a breath, and inhaled deeply. The scent of autumn was as rich as the field; there was newness and old, worn leaves replacing the vivid new ones that refused to budge, not yet at least. Even though winter's reign was just about to be crowned, they would cling with a perseverance that I quite admired. Even in adversity, the green leaf clings to the branch, unmoving, even as the first snow falls, only then, as the cold bites and stings, does it fall.
I spend far too much time in my quiet observations, and yet I believe I learn a lot, simply by staring, by watching. When one has lost a sense completely, especially one that is held close to one's chest, they become attuned to the world in a whole new light. I did not lose my voice per say, my lungs had filled with air the moment I was born but even when my mother had forced me to speak, nothing came. Silence, empty and cold, filled her ears. That was why she hated me, I was sure.
In my observations, I drew my head up, ears flickering, hearing the dull thuds of approaching hooves. Soft eyes drew a whole persona for the grey steed, before he even settled beside me. My lips curve into a small smile, feather-light against my face. A blink and he was sure to miss it. Feathered lobes capture his words, ingest them with the same curious contemplation, the glass-like marble eye, that stays perfectly aligned on him.
How hard it is to first meet someone, and not say Hello. My lungs fill with what would have been a glorious breath, followed by a gentle, lilting voice. I always imagined what my voice would sound like; perhaps the soft tune of a lark, the lilting touch of a butterfly. I never will know. All I manage is to extend my neck, bridging the gap between us, by a few feet, soft velvet muzzle twitching. Inhaling his scent; he smelt of wildflowers and earth, of open spaces and freedom. The smell, it tasted on my tongue, what the sweet clover in spring reminds me of.
Soundless lips curve once more, a gentle smile. Eyes blink several times, meeting his. When you cannot speak, you use your other senses, your body. But it was always made difficult when met with strained, empty stares. I gulped a breath and pawed at the earth, digging at the weed torn ground.
The sun is okay, the dying grass is okay. I.. I am not sure if I am okay. the thought slips my mind, like the passing leaf that had sailed down the river. Quick, lost within moments. Oh, this was a hardship. A hardship indeed.
adelphia
i'll miss you like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky
He cannot imagine not having all of his faculties intact.
To not see the world as it changes, the cyclical nature of the seasons and the battle for life in direct defiance of death. To not hear the songs of the forest, the humming of the bee and the chortle of a stream. To not taste the mountain water, to never know the sweet grass of a high glade pressed between one’s teeth. He cannot comprehend a life without words, either. Language is an art as much as it is a necessity – he’s grown up surrounded by the voices of his Dalean family. He’s learned the cadence of each voice, their unique flow and pattern. He’s implemented their tones and inflections in his daily life, mimicking certain sounds or phrases as he’s been taught. To not be able to do so is nearly incomprehensible.
Ramiel’s never come across someone like Adelphia in his entire life. His mother had told him that such horses exist – those without working lips, ears, and eyes – but he’s yet to meet one. He doesn’t think this mare is in any way affected until she doesn’t respond. He shakes his head a little because he’s wrong – she’s responded, just not in a way he’s accustomed to. Comfortable with, even, though it shames him to think so. Their culture has become so focused on wit and words and the deceit one can hide within them, that they’ve largely forgotten the time before they could speak. Their ancestors had had entire conversations with nothing more than their bodies. The air had been still between them, empty of the words that now congest their conversations.
The grey stallion finds himself responding to the mare, but it takes a moment. His instincts surface and he meets her outstretched muzzle with his own, if a bit late. She breathes him in and he wonders what she smells. Surely he’s drenched in the scents of his home: the evergreen trees on the mountain slopes, the coarse, dying grass of the hillsides. It’s likely as foreign to her as her smell is to him. Try as he might, Ramiel can’t place it anywhere from within Beqanna. That’s alright, he thinks, smiling back at her, I only wish she could tell me about it. He’s fascinated by the outside world, though he’s in no state to explore it just yet. The Dale needs him, and he wonders if this girl needs a more permanent home, too, or if she’s just passing through.
He does stare, though. It’s hard not to because he doesn’t want to miss a cue from the speckled woman. She seems to catch the fact, pawing at the ground in frustration. He pulls back immediately, not wanting to upset her more than he’s probably already done. Surely there’s some etiquette he should follow here – he just doesn’t know what that is. He frowns a little, losing himself in thoughts of rectifying their lack of communication. An idea comes to him quickly, and he is brighter when he looks at her.
“Can you mouth the words?” He says it slowly, as if she is deaf as well as mute. As soon as the question leaves his lips, he realizes his mistake. “Sorry,” he says, horrified that he’s probably offended her again. Ramiel reaches out and brushes her shoulder lightly, encouragingly. He’ll help her figure this out if it takes all day. It’s clear that she’s not okay, as his first question had asked after, but that will come in time, too. Perhaps it is this difficulty that is bothering her. “I’m Ramiel.” He pauses for a beat, wondering if she will try his suggestion. There’s got to be an answer, maybe this is it. “Who are you?”
Ashen steel ears slip back, drooping to the side of my crown. Dejection comes quite often, sad, sorrow weighs far heavier than any other emotion, for it gnaws at your bones like the cold, cold wind and it freezes every muscle in your frame. It makes you feel like lead, heavy and burdensome. My mother had often told me how much of a burden I had been. The soundless one, the one that could not scream if needed, the one who could not say my name or try and match the melody of birds. But mostly, she had been shouldered the burden of a girl who could not find someone else, someone to understand her, to match her like the birds find theirs. Ah, perhaps it was that thought of never having a grandchild from me, that made her so stricken. I pause, pressing all four hooves into the dirt beneath. Moist with winter's cool rains, soon going to give way to slick mud. I stare down to my feet, the deadened grass mottled in places, the beaten tracks worn to reveal an expanse of clear dirt, a blank canvas so to speak.
My ears twist, capturing Ramiel's voice, he is kind in his gesture and I can tell he isn't quite sure what to do. I roll my shoulders in a delicate shrug, and take those few steps forward, breaching out gap. I press my nose against his shoulder, ever so gently. Before reeling back. Not many took kindly to touch, especially a strange breaching personal spaces. I had learnt early on in my life that touch was as good as any words. If you were angry teeth could leave a nasty mark, sadness, it would melt you into a puddle and touch, a single gesture could say a thousand unspoken words.
Mouthing the words, I try, I try and get increasingly frustrated. Adelphia. I mouth, over and over again, longing to scream it to the darkening skies above. Adelphia I try it slow, I try it fast and I am certain he is unable to read my ash mottled lips, so I scrape the ground, furious at myself, furious at the world for not gifting me with a voice. And as I scrape the blank canvas on the ground, I find the lines drawn neatly across the dirt to some advantage. Upon a large blank spot, my tentative hoof attempts to line things. A.H.D.E.L.L.F.E.E.H.A.H. I write what I imagine it sounds. It seems useless then, and I scrape my hoof over the words, wiping clean the moth-eaten earth and then lifting my head back to gaze at the steed. Ramiel seemed far calmer than most, he did not attempt to be harsh, his words were gentle in a way the wind caressed me, unknowing of the burdens that weigh heavy upon my soul.
Adelphia. I mouth, every part of my lips I take it slowly. Hoping he understood, and then, with a sharp direction of my nose I turn to what was the path that led me to the field. Home. I mouth, again. Slowly, assuredly with every part of my lips. The twinkle in my eye of promised tears not letting on. Home. I say again, if only the sound accompanied my lips. I step closer again, outstretching my fine neck, swan-like and draped in ashen tendrils. My muzzle touches his shoulder once more. Thank you. Thank you for your patience.
adelphia
i'll miss you like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky
