"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
you taught me the courage of the stars before you left
how light carries on endlessly, even after death
The day had come and gone just like so many before. And it was only as night fell and the stars bled gold through the black that Oksana knew this day would be different after all. As quickly as she could, which was not so quickly at all these days, she had made her way to the open stretch of beach at the Chambers edge, unfurled a monstrous pair of prehistoric wings, and fell into the waiting dark of the vast night sky. And just a little while later, with sweat dampening the hollows of her neck, the Meadow had opened like a hand to catch her as she dropped.
When the first streaks of pink and gold lit the sky to signal the start of a new day, dawn found not one, but three damp silhouettes tucked inconspicuously beneath the cover of the trees. A mare, tired but pleased with wings that were substantially smaller now, and two impossibly perfect children, one red, the other brown.
Oksana felt the swell of love in her heart like an impossible pressure in her chest as she rose on tired feet to stand above them. It was always like this, seeing them for the first time after knowing them for so long in such a different way, like a fire in her gut that burned everything else away. It became the only thing that mattered. The agony of birth a pain she gave herself to freely, willingly.
Her breath catches like a burr in her chest as she reaches down to touch the brown and white filly, the firstborn, who had just begun the struggle of defying gravity and balancing on legs that seemed entirely too fragile beneath that delicate, teetering body. “Isle,” she breathes, pressing her lips to the white whorl on the girls forehead, “my beautiful Isle.” The red colt, red like his mom (and oh, how she loves this), is quick to mimic his sister. And then both are crushed together, defying gravity together, a tangle of red and brown and white. The boy stands closer and she reaches out to brush her lips so lightly down the length of his spine. “Wyck,” she breathes, and there is only love resonating in the warmth of her beautiful face, “my perfect Wyck.”
She tucks them close to her belly, a single wing lifting to enclose them. And before the words even leave Oksana’s mouth, Isle says in a voice that is impossibly soft, “I love you too, mama.”
Dempsey was not what you would call a paternal man.
He had his fair share of children running around (what healthy, of-age stallion did not?), but he could not claim that he was particularly invested in their lives. It was one of his many short-comings, this apathy about his progeny—and he did not deny it. Even the children born from his love with Nativity had gone mostly unnoticed by him. He was ashamed to admit there were children whose names he did not know.
So he is surprised by himself that he wants to meet his children with Oksana.
Not because he was in love with her, but rather because he cares—which in and of itself was rare enough for the stallion. They had formed perhaps one of the strangest of friendships he had ever experienced, and he found himself invested in not only her well-being, but that of the children. (Two, he knew. He had picked up on both of their thoughts when standing near her, although he had not told Oksana. Rather he simply enjoyed their mumblings and incoherent thoughts as they formed and then drifted away.)
He is near as she enters birth, keeping watch although he has no reason to think that she is not safe. There are plenty of mares who are now giving birth and no reason to single Oksana out. Still, it eased a rare tension in his heart to ensure that she was safe—and it gave him something to do while he felt helpless. He had never before bothered to be at the birth of one of children; he had no idea how difficult it was.
When the twins are born, and when they have stood and nursed, he approaches the trio, moving first to Oksana so he can bump his nose against hers. “Well done,” he says affectionately before turning his attention to the children. Isle’s ability develops quickly, and he laughs with delight. “A little mind reader!” he exclaims, lowering his head to peer at her before pinching his lips to consider the red boy. “That will certainly come in handy,” his voice is softer now, more thoughtful. “He loves you too, Oksana,” there is no pity as he watches the silent boy, “but he won’t be able to tell you that.” He lifts his head. “He’s mute.”
but now we're sleeping at the edge holding something we don't need
The first thing that Wyck notices is the cold.
It strikes him fast as soon as the air hits him and almost takes the air out of him. Instantly, he finds that all he wants is the warmth of his home; all he wants is to know that same peace and quiet that he had known. The world is loud and cold and unfamiliar, and he finds that his throat is itching to make some noise in protest but nothing comes out. For as loud as the world is, he can not match it.
This is the first cruelty that Wyck learns.
But, in the next minutes (and hours, and days), Wyck would learn that the world is not altogether as awful as his first impressions. His mother, for starters, is soft and loving and warm (if not as warm as the womb) and his sister is kind and his father is, well, his father. There are things that take the edge off of the cruelty of the world if not negate it altogether—for life would never be perfectly kind to the silent red boy.
He is proud when he finally manages to stand and his almond eyes brighten, tiny head pointing to his mother to make sure that she was looking—that she caught his first accomplishment. He straightens as best as he can muster, grinning with pleasure before wobbling to his sister, bumping into her side.
‘I did it!’ he thinks with gusto, thrilled that he had been able to stand as quickly as she.
Then, his father approaches and he is looking into the other’s large brown eyes, frowning back at him—not understanding what he was saying but wanting to. ‘What is mute?’ he wonders, pressing his fuzzy lips together in confusion, ‘Is mute bad? Am I bad?’ His thoughts wander to that desire, that need to make sound, the itching in his throat, and settle there. Is that what mute was? Was he broken?
Now frightened, he pressed up against his sister, taking comfort in her soft, round belly and the familiar scent and feel of having her against him. His eyes, wide and panicked, look to his mother for answers.
WYCK
all this delusion in our heads is going to bring us to our knees
you taught me the courage of the stars before you left
how light carries on endlessly, even after death
Oksana had not expected anything from Dempsey, and even though she had flown to the Meadow, to the last place she had seen him, it had not been because she thought he would come find her. Still though, it would be dishonest to say that she had not considered what life would be like for their child (children, though she had not realized) if it was loved well by both parents. Of her children so far, only Malis had that, and even that love had been poisoned by Makai’s ghosts, splintered when he had left them. But Oksana wanted more for Isle and Wyck, more than her best, more than her everything. In coming here she had flung open a door for Dempsey, in coming here she offered him a choice.
So when he solidifies from the shadows nearby (she did not realize that he had been standing watch) she can feel a sense of satisfied relief blossoming within her chest. He touches her nose and she smiles, her breath warm on his skin. There is a part of her that is surprised he came, just a small part where doubt had wedged like a sliver and called itself reason. But there was an even larger part of her, a dangerous part, perhaps, that trusted him implicitly.
Okay, I’ll leap.
When he turns his back on her she is glad, because it takes a moment to hurry away the warm affection that shapes her mouth into a smile that reaches the quiet green of her eyes. It isn’t love, or not a kind of love she can make sense of, but it means everything that he’s here for Isle and Wyck.
She had realized it when Isle spoke, responding to words that had not even been voiced aloud. But it made her smile to hear it from Dempsey, to see them together, father and daughter, with a similar smile beneath the laughter on his lips. And then he turns to Wyck, her beautiful Wyck, and she can see that laughter quell beneath the softening of his expression. Mute. Her heart roars in her chest like a slayed beast, and it isn’t disappointment, not pity, but the fact that she might never hear his beautiful voice. Her eyes flash to Dempsey in that moment, realizing suddenly how much more it would mean now, whether he stayed or disappeared, and how desperately she wanted him to stay. How she needed him. And it is not until the last thought had formed and fled her thoughts that she remembered a crucial detail she had managed to both simultaneously remember and still overlook.
It was not just Isle and Wyck’s thoughts he knew, but hers too, everything from the moment he had appeared at their side from the shadows. She found his eyes once more, held them a moment, and as her heart quieted in its anguish she looked away again. Instead her attention returns to their children, and just in time to see Wyck’s frightened face peering back up at her.
Beside him, Isle drops her chin over his back and pulls him as close as their wobbly legs will allow. “What is mute?” Isle’s voice is small and imploring, and Oksana wonders if she already knows but won’t say for the sake of not leaving her brother out of things.
Oksana’s wings shift into red feathers, downy soft, and one wraps around the twins to hold them close, to chase away the chill in the morning air. “Mute means you talk different than we do. You have to talk with your smile. With your ears, and your eyes.” Her lips brush each mentioned part of his head, her breath warm against his red skin.
think about it, there must be higher love down in the heart or hidden in the stars above
Isle does not notice the cold, nor does she notice the sky and the trees and the grass bent beneath their feet. Not at first. At first she notices how much louder the thoughts are out here. They are easier to make out, the sound of them, but harder to understand because the voices, the thought voices, jumble together. She shakes head once and her ears slap-slap against her skull. This world is loud, and she loves it.
When Wyck finds his balance and appears by her side, she touches his face and his neck and his shoulder with velvet lips before tucking her chin over his withers and pulling him close. She likes the way their hearts feel beating together again. She can feel his excitement in the quiver of his skin, can hear it in the fervor of his thoughts. “You did!” She agrees pulling him closer, not thinking it strange that he didn’t have to speak aloud for her to hear him (it had been that way for as long as she had known conscious thought).
And then father (oh she likes him, likes the way his eyes sparkled when she reached inside her mothers thoughts) uses a word that neither child knew, though Isle knew a little more than Wyck from the pieces of thought she could knit together between mother and father. “What is mute?” Her little voice is soft and imploring as she tugs her brother even closer still.
Oksana answers, bundling them close beneath her wing.
“See Wyck?” Isle says and her voice is just a whisper of warmth in his tiny, swiveled ear. “Not bad, not broken.” And in fact the idea that her brother could be anything less than perfect is a completely alien, completely impossible thought. “You’re you, Wyck.”
10-05-2015, 12:03 AM (This post was last modified: 10-05-2015, 01:37 AM by dempsey.)
Family—what an odd concept. Dempsey thought about it as he found himself surrounded by one of the most complete families he had ever experienced, mouth pulling into a thoughtful frown. Oksana’s thoughts had not escaped him, they never did, and he wasn’t sure what to make of them—or, more surprisingly, his own reaction. It was not love that warmed his heart, but he would be lying if he said that was not invested in the red mare before him. She had somehow become rooted in him, and he had found that his wanderings had become smaller and smaller over time, and they seemed to center around her.
Maybe it was more love than he cared to admit—albeit a different kind.
Dempsey shook his head, tucking away the thought for another time.
Looking at Oksana, one corner of his lip lifted higher than another in a conspiratorial grin. She knew he had read her thoughts—and, not for the first time, he was glad she could not return the favor. “Don’t worry,” he said with a wink, “I’m not going anywhere yet.” The last word was added almost as an after thought, as a commitment to his promise to her that he would not lie. It would feel dishonest to tell her he would never leave, and he had said he would always be truthful. Truthful about them, about him.
Realizing that Oksana was the only one who was kept out of the loop from the conversation, he took a step so he could whisper in her ear (not that it would do much good with Isle around), “He’s worried that he’s broken.” It broke his heart to admit that to her; that his son, just barely hours old, would already be plagued with the self-doubt that seemed to cripple most adults. It seemed so unfair to give him that weight.
His attention is diverted to the pair of them beneath Oksana’s wing, and he smiles at Oksana’s explanation of the word—he should have known that she would be a good mother. “No, you’re not bad, Wyck,” he responds finally, plucking the entire family’s thoughts from the air with the ease of someone who had long ago mastered his trait. It was different to navigate a conversation with one mute, two mind-readers, and one not-so-normal normal mare, but he didn’t trip; if anyone was equipped for the job, he could handle it.
“Like your mom said, you’re just different.”
He reaches down to ruffle both of their forelocks with his nose, laughing lightly. “We’re all a little different here.” His voice drops to a low rumble as he catches both of their gaze, “Although your mom is definitely the weirdest. Don’t tell her I said that.” He lifts his head to look at her, and stretches his neck, enjoying the simple pleasure of the conversation between all of them. He was a man of simple pleasures—and, even though this one was on the surface one of the most complicated simple pleasures he had ever experienced, it was still perfect to him.
but now we're sleeping at the edge holding something we don't need
There was something that shimmered between the family, and it was something that would stick with Wyck for a long time. There was a peace here, a stability. Despite the somewhat odd structure of their family, Wyck would often look back on this time with a smile—even when he would later come to learn of his father and mother’s rather strange relationship. Now, next to his sister, tucked next to his mother, and with his father grinning down at him, he felt at peace. As if nothing bad could possibly happen to any of them—
As if, even if was broken, perhaps it wasn't the worst thing in the world.
He closes his eyes and sighs with relief at his mother’s explanation, the joy at finding out that he wasn’t broken or bad visibly washing over his small, newly-formed features. His lips curl into a wide grin and he butts his head into her side, wiggling his ears, ‘I can talk with my ears, ma!’ He takes a step back and lifts his chin so that she can see his smile and then widens his eyes, ‘And my smile and my eyes.’
He laughs internally, the sound bouncing around in his mind with an unleashed joy.
The fact that his father and his sister could communicate with him easily was accepted without a second thought, the way they responded to his thoughts seeming as natural as if he had spoken them aloud. ‘I am okay with being Wyck,’ he thought to his sister, ‘and you get to be Isle! I like that too.’ Then his dad reaches down and he scrunches his nose in playful distaste. ‘I think I like being different,’ he admitted, because if they were all different, then it didn’t seem like such a bad thing to be. He rather liked being like his family.
WYCK
all this delusion in our heads is going to bring us to our knees
you taught me the courage of the stars before you left
how light carries on endlessly, even after death
It isn’t that she is surprised when he answers an unasked question- she had known he had heard it as soon as it fluttered to the front of her thoughts, but she was surprised to find it did not bother her as much as it had that first night. It was true that she was used to her thoughts being private, being her own, but it did not feel like a violation when he caught this thought before it faded into nothingness. Maybe it was because he had seen her at her worst, known her in the instant she was most vulnerable with a heart mangled beyond recognition. He had known her then and he had not minded, had not twisted that knife even deeper into her chest. And in knowing her, even then, even in that darkness, he had given her Isle and Wyck.
He winks and she can feel a smile tightening the corners of her mouth. It isn’t for the first time that she feels grateful for his levity, for the way he refuses to acknowledge her need to dwell on unchangeable things, impossible worries. When he speaks she does not bother to say anything back, he would already know how she felt by the fervor of her earlier thoughts.
When his attention shifts back to their children, their children, so does hers. But when he turns back to her again and his mouth is against her ear, his words crumble the world around them. Suddenly there is a hook in her belly, an anchor, and it’s pulling her dangerously close to that place again, the dark place, the place Dempsey was so nonchalantly adept at pulling her out of. Dismay threatens to spill out over the red of her delicate face but she conceals it carefully, burying it in a place she hopes Wyck will never find. “Broken.” She whispers before she even realizes she has said it aloud, and the word crushes her. There was nothing in this world or the next more perfect than her children. Nothing.
Her eyes return to their children curled together beneath the feather and sinew of her overly large wing. “Different is good, love.” And when Wyck disentangles himself from his sisters embrace to butt his head against her side she can feel her thoughts, thoughts of love and pride and belonging (strong but so universal she isn’t sure Dempsey will have anything tangible to grasp, anything individual), consume her. His ears wiggle and his mouth curves, those soulful eyes widening pointedly. None if it is wasted on her. An identical smile appears on her mouth as she flicks her ears and widens her eyes too. “Yes, Wyck,” she says and she laughs (and it’s the most genuine laugh she has shared in a long while), “I hear you, love.” She reaches out to him, brushing his forelock aside to leave a kiss on his forehead.
When Dempsey speaks she almost misses it, she’s far too wrapped up in watching the way the twins twine together and smile. The way their tiny ears flick back and forth, and those delicate noses flare at all the new smells. She loves their knobby knees and impossibly small feet, the way their manes are tufts of color and their tails just a puff of curls. They’re so perfect, so perfect, and it’s hard in this moment to notice anything else. Except Dempsey. Because in him being there with them, in the way he smiles and touches them, the way he makes them titter and groan, it amplifies the contentment fluttering on wings in her stomach. This is all she has ever wanted, this family, this moment, and it will be a moment (a memory) that sustains her in the darkest periods of her lonely forever. But she does catch his words, just barely, and she groans conspiratorially and swats at him with the tip of her wing. “Oh, but your father isn't nearly as clever as he thinks he is.”
think about it, there must be higher love down in the heart or hidden in the stars above
Isle felt it too, the balance of their strange little family. She felt the way father seemed so calm, so comfortable, like an anchor that kept mother from drifting too far. And she felt the way mother was like a bird, grounded for now, but always on the verge of falling away into the deep blue sky. But they balanced each other, or father balanced mother, and the dynamic worked. It wouldn’t matter in the years to come, when Isle would truly understand, because it worked, and that meant it did not have to make sense.
When Wyck turns to Oksana, Isle turns to Dempsey. He pushes his nose against her forelock and she lifts her face to push her own impossibly small nose against his with a small huff of breath. “Dad?” She asks in a voice as small as her newborn body, “why is it getting so loud? My head hurts.” Her brow furrows and her eyes close as she flattens her ears against her head. She had heard them before, when she was still sleeping beside Wyck in the warm place, but everything had been dulled then. She could hear her brother and her mother, and sometime another voice, but everything else had been like the wind in the leaves. Now, as morning passed them by and the population of the Meadow began to swell, Isle had a cacophony of urgent whispers and hissing ringing in her thoughts.
But then Wyck turns back to her and the excitement in his thoughts is so strong, so tangible, that the other noise fades a little. She leans close and huffs a small breath against his cheek, her own dark eyes wide with delight. “Yes! What do you think an Isle is supposed to be like?” She asks her brother and her tiny brow furrows again. And then another thought falls into her hand and she catches it like a snowflake. “Do I get to be different too?”
Their thoughts are loud to him, but he doesn’t mind the volume. His ability had been fine-tuned over the years and it was now second nature to him—the act as instinctual as breathing. He weaves together their thoughts and few spoken words into one cohesive conversation, jumping from one to the other like one might skip rocks atop the water. It stretches him a little, but he enjoys the exertion, flexing the muscle and feeling the satisfaction of it deep in his bones. If this wasn’t what his gift was for, then what was?
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs again into her ear, feeling the sorrow spread like a poison through her veins. “He says that he rather likes being Wyck.” He pulls back to catch her gaze, knowing that he was something of a buoy for her in these uncharted waters and marveling that he was ever appreciated for his stability. Who would have thought? “So don’t go in the deep end on me.” He nudges her neck lightly, and grins. “We’re all good here.” He looks down at the smiling children. “All of us.”
But, of course, she navigates the waters flawlessly, because if anything, Dempsey had learned that Oksana was a good mother. He found it oddly endearing. “Don’t listen to her kids,” he grins, winking at them conspiratorially, “I’m the cleverest.” His laugh is rich and it bounces against his throat before his attention turns toward Isle, his heart warming with an alien emotion. “I know, love,” he drops his head again, his face naked with compassion—his cavalier attitude stripped from him before her pleading eyes.
“You can shut it out though, I promise.” His voice is low, and he feels the beginning of a headache at not only hearing his own version of the thoughts around them, but the amplified version of chaos in her own head as he concentrates on it. He winces slightly, but does his best to smooth it over. “Think about something very quiet—like a meadow where it’s just you and me. Imagine what it would be like if there was absolutely nothing but the wind. Focus on that.” He pauses. “You can mute the world.”
He remembers what it was like before he had managed to get a handle on the ability, the way that thoughts could barge in uninvited—taking up unwanted space and echoing in his ears. Then, when he had started to more purposefully filter through his companion’s thoughts, how clumsy he had been—his actions almost always detected (and resented). He did not miss those times, and he found his often apathetic heart aching at the growing pains that Isle would feel as she went through those same motions.
“You are different too, Isle—although I prefer special. We’re all a little special.”
Another laugh and a wink. “Even your mother.”
