dead beat {Pollock}

[Hestia]

the cat and the fiddle

She watched the days turn by slowly, each one bringing a new victim a new death. A few secrets revealed. Slowly the layers were pealing away. Strangely he was a lot more sociable then she had ever thought he could be.

She waits in the distance, still polite to his privacy. She couldn't say that she was ungrateful to him for doing this to her, but at the same time, she couldn't say that she was happy about it either. This all just felt as a simple reminder to her that her life was not ment to be happy.

A solitary tear sparkles in her eye, but it does not fall, no she had sworn off tears a long time ago and no she would not begin them now. She couldn't say that she didn't have it coming, she should have recognized the signs. Should have seen this coming from a mile away. But truth be told she didn't.

No instead she is stuck watching her murderer. It couldn't be Fennick, couldn't be Kryten, couldn't be Eona. No it had to be the man that had been her demise. She was stuck with him just as much as he was stuck wtih her.

Always lingering in the shadows, always listening to his every word. Ever bored with the mundain life he led. Then again she couldn't let him know that he was just like her, and the wandering from one place to another was exactly what she herself had done for most of her life. Never had she settled into a place perminantly. Never had she been one to keep to one home.

Beqanna owned her soul, she would never be able to part with the land, it was a part of her soul, just as the air and water were one and the same. But now standing here, the trees do not sway, the bushes do not wisper, the grasses do not part, the waters do not bow before. No she is dead to them, she is dead to the world and all that she holds dear. Yet letting go of any of it felt more than impossible for her to do.

This was the exact reason she feared death, this was the exact reason that she had been grateful for her immortality. She never wanted this, never wanted to be a ghost watching as others pass through her, as others pass over her. As no one notices that the mare was there able to see and hear everything that was going on. You know you can come closer. Her ear flickers around listening as he begins to aproach her.

Her carcass, rotting, almost completely cleaned to its bones. There seemed to be almsot nothing left of her. A sort of detached blink as it is crawlign with the festering bugs of death. not one for a decent clean up I see She muses dryly at this.

Hestia

The living dead

@[pollock]

[Pollock]

I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray


Theirs is a strange weave.

But he is well acquainted with strange things. In the grand scheme of things, she mightn’t even be the strangest of them all. He could sit and let the mystery of their union scour his sanity – but he quite prides himself on keeping a level head. He could mull over her queer and tenuous grip on their world (or his world, her former – her prison and her vault of echoing memories), or the way she seems stuck between with only his company in that space.
He has other things to suck him down. His mind is a quagmire.

His dreams are fitful (she she would well know by now). Plagued by the slimy and evasive wisps of things bygone, or foretold, or maybe fictions clamped to his brain like mussels on wet rocks – disease and lesion. But then he remember waking up whole. The weight of his head, the split of his toes. Everything else that makes him what he is: a better version of that sad and impotent shade of himself. He remembers being weak and then mighty. The in between is the riddle – the endless labyrinth.

Dead ends.

He watches her hang by her corpse. The sight of it must taste like ash in her mouth. He hopes so. He imagines she cannot smell it, having been untethered from this plane of senses, but it is foul. Not as foul as it had been, and soon it will smell like nothing and then it will be nothing. 
He lets her have her peace as she lets him have his.

She is no longer meat and girth, but a whisper against the curve of his ear and neither wants to be soldered to the other. He sighs, stepping towards her, his eyes darting over the hang of black-brown flesh and the deadened areas around that will soon become lively off the feast of her breakdown. “I think it’s fine as it is.” He stand shoulder-to-shoulder with her, feels the cold place where he knows she is intangible – vaporous and faintly transparent. “Have you heard about your mate? Former mate, I apologize. Or does news not travel to the dead? I wonder if losing you was the cause of his truancy.” his voice almost doesn’t carry a derisive tone. 
He breathes, lets her ponder that and what it means (if his crown ever meant anything – his love probably meant more, but now neither of them get either of those things).

“He hasn’t come for me. When do you think he will, Hestia?”


POLLOCK
Lone Artist and Phina’s

[Hestia]

the cat and the fiddle

  In the first few moments after death her anger had fueled her. She had engaged him. Seething at his enjoyment of this. Now each day goes by and everything about her expresses a new thinness. A flicker here, a withering sound there. Scattered throughout the day. As they traveled and he pulled her around to old spots that would flood her mind with distant memories of another life.
Hestia could feel her heart shriveling. Once more losing her soul to all but the land. The land had been her hope, the land had been her guide. The land was what kept her going in her immortal years. When she first began hating the yawning path of time. It never disappeared. She never grew older. The world passed her by without a second glance. Others would grow old, others would have families. Others would live a life, and know that one day it would end for them. For her… there had been no end. So she learned to survive. She found her belonging. It wasn’t with other horses, not with kingdoms.

No she had been the story keeper. Her life meant little, except for all the secrets that she possessed. All the little whispers and nuances that were said in the shadows. They were hers and hers alone. No one noticed her so she blended in, the land welcomed her and would shroud her where she walked so she had no exposure. She would watch from the shadows as others came and went. But it was her that knew it all.

Now… her mind goes blank. A dark hole chipping away at her. One that she is all too familiar with. Looking to her body, her frame flickers.  She knows she is nothing, I know I shouldn’t be here. I know that. She hisses the last words to her thoughts not realizing that she spoke them aloud. When he approaches her, she can’t help it. She is so weary. Hestia leans against him, even as she can feel him, feel the warmth, she knows if she does this too heavily she would simply slip through. But for the moment, a warm body next to hers is all that she can ask for.  Allowing herself the small pleasure of believing that there is one that cares for her is an illusion that is well worth the pain.

He shocks her out of it once more. The days blur with you around. She responds to him dryly. I remember little, if anything. Her retort is meant to hurt him. But she is sure that it had no effect on him. Still it was always a guilty pleasure of hers to vent. It didn’t do anything except give her the smug feeling that she had a voice and could use it. She was proud to annoy others.

probably off with another whore if you ask me. He got what he wanted out of me. her thin voice hardens at this attempting to brush it off as if it was nothing. How could she be so stupid? He couldn’t have cared for her. She was stupid to think that he did. He got his children. A daughter a son. He only kept her around to watch them and make sure that she didn’t run off with them at any time. It’s what all males do after all. Her muscles tighten at this. Her heart turning cold just as her temperature drops slightly with the crackling anger that was forming in her chest. She should have never settled. She should have never relaxed and trusted. No it was the biggest mistake she could have committed.

Looking his way her green orb flickers with steely resolve. The ancient look of before she met this Fennick. He couldn’t hurt her anymore. She had her childish moment, and she had paid the price. The Jungle spirit would always exact its payment from her. She smiles wryly to him. You know I don’t blame you for killing me. I would have done the same. She states it as a joke. I was becoming to soft. Thanks for the reminder Pollock. Her humor dry as ever. Her solid stance growing firmer now.

Hestia

The living dead