"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
it's strange what desire will make foolish people do.
She thinks it is another one of his tricks. The dull, booming thudding inside her head; she doubt she knows the extent of his powers, this could be one of them (the power to terrorise fillies who strayed too far from their mothers and ended up, helpless, at his hooves). The Meadow is different, now; it is grey. Bleak, and empty, and grey. She stands out - when she is visible - green and red and stubborness that is being worn down by some sort of devil (but how she is drawn to him! Oh, she fears him and she fears to leave him).
But mostly she is invisible - not through any conscious control, but clearly her body knows it should stay unseen as much as possible.
It is still the Meadow though; it must be, she has not moved, the world has moved around her. That ringing, it fills her head up and she does not - cannot - move. Her hooves are stuck to the ground, and with every chime she feels as though she is sinking into the earth. She would panic, but being with him has taught her that panic never leads to rescue, only to punishment. She doesn’t want to be punished (or maybe this is a punishment, for something she does not yet realise she has done); she wants to please him, always.
Then she sees others, and that unrelenting gravity suddenly releases her.
This is when panic starts to swell.
The bells stop and nothingness fills her ears, fills her head, fills her whole body with a dread so deep and so dark that she wonders what she did to deserve this. She is good, she does what she is told; she always does what she is told. Maybe he is getting bored of her, she must keep him entertained.
Then a voice, rumbling like the earth itself is moving; it speaks to her and she knows that this is not him. This is something else. The panic almost bursts out, but the others start to speak and she must keep it together. She isn’t the only child - there is one other - but she is the smallest, the weakest. She cannot let them see her as an easy target (because she doesn’t know what is to come and she is oh so afraid because at least with him the torture eventually ends she doesn’t know what this is she doesn’t know what to do), so she straightens herself up, wills her body to be visible - and it is, for a short time, then it blinks out, then in, then out - and speaks up; “I’m in.”
Although she isn’t, not completely.
She wishes she were with him because at least she knows what to expect.
kreios don't you tame your demons, but always keep them on a leash
I should be used to summons by now.
The last had been far less ominous than this; it was the kind and deeply accented voice of my former queen, calling me home. This is something else entirely.
The copse of trees in the Forest in which I had been resting has faded somehow, and the murmur of voices (even the chatter of birds) has faded into dull silence. I step out into the sun – no, there is no sun, only less darkness – from beneath the trees. The bells are no longer easy to ignore, and so I follow, knowing only that moving forward is better than staying alone.
Perhaps I learned something in the wilds afterall.
I feel more conspicuous than usual, my bright coat almost gaudy in this dull grey world, but there is no one here to see me, no one to comment.
At least, there hadn’t been. AS I follow the sound of the bells, I begin to see movement at the corner of my eye. First one horse then another, all of us following the tolling of the bells. I pay no attention to where we go, only that it is forward, and so I do not truly see the others until after I have seen the lamb. I was there and then gone so quickly I am not at all sure I had seen it. I have no answer; not yet. Only after the lamb disappears do I truly look up at the faces of those gathered around me, wondering if they too had seen the small horned creature.
There is a black mare, a roan, and a small filly, who I step towards immediately out of instinct. She is too small to be here at the end of the world; she should not be alone. As I move forward I see a more familiar face, Lucrezia, who is already voicing her acceptance. No, I want to tell her, and the chestnut colt who speaks after her: No – you cannot accept the end. I barely hear the acquiescence of the others, torn between by need to be beside Lucrezia and shield the children – Weaver and Rhonen – from whatever it is they have so casually accepted.
I cannot let them go alone, and so while I want nothing more than to return to the bright – and lonely – Beqanna I had left behind, I tell that voice that “I accept.”
She burns long after his flame has been snuffed out, the residual sparked-kindling building towards an inferno. She is young and green, her legs still long and her body lean. Already, though, pain has flooded her system. Already, she has lost a father and misplaced a brother. Already, she’s been homeless and hopeless – a seed planted too early and washed out before roots could take hold.
Her mother’s hand had been an unsteady throughout her tending of the girl. She couldn’t nurture her like her twin (she looked just like father, his spitting image down to the blaze). She couldn’t tell her everything would be all right (it wouldn’t ever be again for Talulah; even the love of her children couldn’t replace what she’d lost). She couldn’t look to the future when all she ever wanted was now in the past.
Titanya did not understand at first. All she knew was that her mother’s love was an unequal gift, heaped upon her damaged brother (who ate everything, edible and non-edible, much to his misfortune) and given to her in the leftover scraps. But it was all right, for a while. Even if she’d been shallowly planted, ready to be swept away at any point, she had managed to dig in. Instead of succumbing to the tide, she pushed against it. She had grown stronger and more independent. Pleas to watch her stricken brother grew more and more distant the further she traveled away from the pair. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her brother – she did, more than anything – it was that she couldn’t take her mother’s sad, sad eyes anymore. The days spent away became more numerous than her days with her remaining family.
One day, this day, she simply can’t find her way back to them.
She goes to the wind-swept stretch of mountainside her mother had been fond of. She finds the little hollow that she and Terran had curled up in when they’d been much smaller. Now, tiny paw-prints mark the dusty earth outside of the scoop. A badger or a weasel, she thinks to herself, smiling at the idea of a complete family finding use of their once-home. But it’s not the scratching of a small mammal she hears deep from within. A faint tinkling sound like the bubbling creeks on the way to the Falls echoes within the chamber. Titanya cocks her head. That can’t be right, can it? But as she strains to listen to the alien sound (metallic, almost like her mother but altogether different, melodic) everything changes.
She blinks and the world is different. Stillness settles across the scene before her. The wild grasses stand erect and untouched, no longer bent by the whipping winds of the high hills. She’s not sure how or why, and startles when the voice sounds in her head. Come…You must come now. The black sabino shakes her head, tries to rid herself of the voice in vain. What is happening? White-hot anger rises just below the surface of her skin, threatening to boil over. If the world is in danger, than surely her brother is out there, helpless in the thick of it. She’s heard the stories, of course. Their world is a tumultuous, shifting landscape where nearly anything can happen. But why did it have to happen now, when she’s never been more vulnerable and alone? Fueled by her barely contained heat, Titanya moves to follow the voice – if only to escape from the bells.
The chiming increases in volume with every step she takes. She thinks it will drive her to violence long before she can locate her family. The dulled, almost monochromatic land seems to stretch into eternity, and all the while, the bells are there, the soundtrack to her misery. But just as she’s given up hope of inhabiting a world with anyone else in it, she sees them. It’s not a large group, but they are horses and it is enough. “What is happening?” Wonder alters the anger in her voice to a more acceptable level, but hardly so. She catches the eye of the older ones among the gathered, a strangely marked grey mare and a black stallion with curling, wild horns. Titanya doesn’t necessarily have more respect for anyone older than her based on their age alone, but she does expect them to have the answers.
When none do, seemingly shocked into a silence at war with the clanking bells, she looks away. A young lamb with the most peculiar accoutrements (too many horns and certainly far too many eyes) sits in the corner of her gaze. The young mare turns to look more closely at it, but when she blinks, there is nothing there. Only the voice and the clanging of the bells remain, sounding into the otherwise paused air. Behold! The end of the world is nigh! Titanya seethes at the thought. The end of the world and they are all standing around to watch it? Why aren’t they doing something about it? You are the chosen ones. Will you accept your fate? She listens as each of the others accept – as if they have a choice – before doing so herself. If there is any chance they can preserve their home, to bring the color back into Beqanna and save its people, she has been in long before the question has been asked. “Yes, of course. Now can we get on with it already?”
Once again she is lost in thoughts, as she has been a lot lately. It is without frustration now, she is content with the home and position she was given temporary. Or at least, that was how Esileif thought of it. That Fynnegan had a whole other idea about the whole ordeal was completely unknown to her. Echo Trails would be her home for now, where she could reign over as alpha mare. The title and position were a sort of achievement, that Fynn had just given it to her without her having to prove herself didn’t change anything about the fact. It wasn’t really what the bay and faint orangey white mare desired, but it was good enough for now. And meanwhile she had all the time of the world to figure out how to go further from now.
It are the pro’s and con’s from joining a kingdom that keep her mind busy. Not just any kingdom, because the Spanish influenced girl is sure she wants to join one, it was more the question if it would be the Gates or the Valley. The silence makes it easy to think and Esileif doesn’t pay any attention to the faint noises in the distance. Well, that is until she realises that the soft sound – that only gets louder little by little – is a strange one, unfamiliar to her. But once she tries to focus her attention to it, it is as the sound has gone away. Shrugging a little she pushes the thought away, banning the thought out of her head and brushing it off as her own imagination. The Gates or the Valley. That was the question she needed to answer.
But then her view flickers and the two toned mare blinks her eyes as her body freezes. Her hooves dig into the ground, almost like she is trying to steady herself. Yet it isn’t the ground that shakes. Her view flickers once again and then it’s silent. Dead silent. Well, that is if you don’t count the nervous snorting sound that Esileif herself makes. ”What the fuck is that?” she mutters underneath her breath, voicing out the one thought that has now completely taken over her thoughts. Then she groans, mentally slapping herself and cursing at herself for using such language. ”What a queen you would make, learn how to control your tongue.”
Esileif is only remembered about the strange situation when the bells get more prominent, inviting her to follow the sound, almost like it’s urging her to come and hurry up. Her own struggles, her insecurities and everything else, are long forgotten as she moves to answer the call. Without giving it a second thought she crosses the border that signals the Echo Trail’s territory and with each step she takes she leaves the lands that are caressed by the harmonious singing of an angel and fairy combined behind.
She crosses the lands of Beqanna, passing through kingdoms and other territories as she follows the invisible path that guides her. She knows that she walks on the lands that she had known all her life, but at the other side she is fairly sure that it isn’t the Beqanna that she knows. Things are different. The silent is the most prominent one. There is nobody around. No scents, no sounds, not the view of others, just simply nothing. It is the same silence that drives her forward and instead of a comfortable walk she’s eagerly trotting, legs carrying her forward faster and faster.
Suddenly the Spanish girl becomes aware of others. She can smell them, see them and hear them. Hesitant to move closer to them she falls back into a calm walk again, before she even stops completely. Her formerly racing heart calms and Esileif forces herself to take a deep breath, urging herself to calm down and get things straight again. ”They will take you as an incompetent child if you rush in like this, no, you’ll have to look calm and secure” she reprimands herself as she makes herself big, before nearing the unfamiliar group of gathered horses.
It is then that she sees the creature. Instantly Esileif comes to a halt again, blinking her two toned eyes a few times as she turns her head a little to the side to look at the odd thing. A lamb, young, small and innocent. But instead of two eyes that look back at you there are seven of them. A lump forms in her throat and the tobiano’s mares eyes widen slightly, lips parting in a silent gasp. Sadly enough – or maybe it’s a good thing? – the creature disappears just as quickly as it came. Yet the bells still sound, louder and more prominent than ever. She can feel them in her stomach, trembling in such a way that gets to you. ”Compose yourself Esi.” With that she pushes herself to move forward, now near to the group of horses. Eyeing them quickly she decides to come to a halt not too far away from them, just before the voice reaches out to them all.
She flinches. The end of the world is nigh. That is all that she hears for a moment long and she can already feel the blood draining away from her face. This can’t be true, it’s impossible that this is true. This must be a complot, somebody must want to punish her. The little girl deep inside her starts trembling again and it’s only the mask and appearance that Esileif has worked so hard on that keeps the bay and orangey white tobiano mare together. She stays silent as other’s vow that they are willing to accept their fate, her eyes looking at them. She hesitates. Partly because of the fearful child that she secretly still is, but also because of the ‘noble’ masks he had created. Why would she bother with the fate of others. Yet at the same time it would be hers to.
”I do.” That is all she says, committing herself to whatever might be coming. Mentally she is scolding herself, while she at the same time cannot help but to let the fearful doom scenarios take over her thoughts. But it’s too late to pull back now, and she wouldn’t be the coward. No. She had to prove herself. Now a small smile pulls on the corners of her dark lips and as she straights her shoulders she moves forward a few steps. ‘Yes, I accept’ is the more secure thought in her mind now. She had been willing to prove herself, having de dire need to prove herself to the world, and this would be a perfect opportunity to do so. She could be a hero. Maybe, maybe then her father would finally give her his approval. The one thing Esileif so desperately longs for.
The red woman presses her lips to the black boy’s brow. And exhales, blowing his wispy forelock with hot, heavy breath. She trances down his bridge and then the the edge of his jaw. Up and around, and finally stops on the emptied space above his cheekbone, feeling around the leathery hollow with her flexible, soft lip.
He breathes. Pulling in the scent of pine and horsehair, the musk of her flesh and her breath. Familiar and comfortable. He cannot conceive of anything but her (but her and sister); the halls of iron pine trees and fire, and the thrum of that underground heart are still, to him, noises and smells that he cannot understand. Not in the way that many others can, rooted by the curves and colours of their form. The pull of wind through grey-green needles, the caw of ravens in the still air; the hushed words of horses, face-less in his everlasting black. They only muddle his mind, and so he stays by her and lets her fill him with her soft coos and promises.
He moves his head towards, as she pulls away. Seeking the reassurance of her touch.
Her side is all he has known. So very self-same to his own, that they feel as gracious and homely as the ribs he had grown in. He could not know, sightless and oh-so tender, that his mother (their mother) had come to bloodshed in his defense. Warding off the fangs that stalk in the hinterlands, giving them chase from her defenseless and hastily hidden colt.
Given something of herself to allow him his life.
So very unlike Crone, indeed. And yet he had been found alive, by the red sister-mother – in blood and without her. It had been something of a great disappointment to Aurane, but as she tested the spring in his ribs under the agitated weight of her hoof, he had turned and revealed to her the gross incompleteness of his face.
She had fallen for him. ‘Much more special than her, dear boy.’
But he likes sister. When he can pry himself from mother, or is pushed away by the gnash of her teeth when they get too rowdy (a sudden sting he cannot ready himself for – sister likes to take the brunt of it – for him, she says), he presses his nose to her and lets the girl guide him through their home.
He breathes in. Snaking out his muzzle, searching for the warm, red bulge of her shoulder or belly.
He breathes in. And panic takes him like a wild gale takes a songbird.
Rings fill his ear, drowning out the pulse of that heartbeat and the wind through those pines.
And silence. As stark and his darkness.
But he knows nothingness intimately, and so he is calmer in the absence of sound as he is in the unsurness of that most unnatural knell.
“Mother…? Sister?”
‘Behold! The end of the world is nigh!’ He flinches, taking an unsteady step forward, feeling the ground in front of him with a cautious hoof. He turns his little black head, tilting this way and that, ears flicking to find the reverberation of that voice... so uncanny and everywhere at once. He moves, step by tiny step, catching a hoof in a pock in the earth and scuffing his knobbly knees.
He pulls in scent. And the mingle of horsehair comes to him in the otherwise stale stillness. “Hello?”
He cannot see the lamb. He is spared that strange hallucination (if it is – it must be). But he can feel it, the seer of its many-eyes before it is gone to them all at once. The black colt stumbles into flesh: black and white, and blueish, and red and green and more. Until finally he scents the sweetness of pine and home, and brushes his nose across Weaver’s hide lightly. Not sister. Not mother. But safety.
‘You are the chosen ones. Will you accept your fate?’
He shivers, ‘one day, you’ll be so big and strong and you’ll rip from the bellies of my enemies the coils of their insides. Sweet boy.’“I know my fate...” he whispers, softly, rolling his shoulder blades and feeling the duality beneath them. Somewhere.
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