• Logout
  • 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


    [private]  that day even the sun was afraid of you; sam pony
    #1

    that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried

    The evening comes upon him like a sigh.

    Like an exhale, and he feels like he can finally release the breath that he had been holding all day. It floods from him like a dammed river and the tension that had built between his shoulders, the sharp pain that had begun to brew behind his eyes dulls slightly. He feels each individual muscle untie as the afternoon bleeds into twilight which then bleeds into true night. His magic unlocks in his chest, stretching until its true form, yawning open to its full potential, and he practically purrs with pleasure as it does.

    Shaking his head, black scales rippling across the golden form of him before sinking beneath the surface, he turns his head upward toward the moon. His lips peel back into a wolfish smile, revealing the sharpened teeth behind the velvet mouth, and he closes his eyes for a second—feeling the silvery light wash over him, his own golden glow radiating in response. A creature of the night, he thinks, laughing at the irony that he is now the most alive during the hours when he had always been the closest to death.

    How cruel.

    How fitting.

    Not willing to stare too long into his own truths tonight, he turns away from the forest that he usually haunts and instead makes his way toward the river. He has come to appreciate the crashing water against the bank—the way that it writhes in places and then smooths out like hammered silver. There’s an honesty to it that he can understand, and he rolls his shoulders as he casts his attention toward the shadow that trails faithfully behind him. Come on then, he thinks toward it, watching as it jerks its shapeless head in response, unused to being addressed fully. Rolling his eyes, Firion continues onward, trusting it would follow him as it does, and instead turns his attention toward the riverbank that winds before him.

    so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried




    @[savage] now you have to write to me
    Reply
    #2
    elodie
    It had happened so suddenly.
    All of it all at once.

    The sun had returned and with it had come fire.
    A halo of fire hovering just above her brow, fine strands of flame spiraling through her hair, an aura of fireflies curling sweetly around her head.

    Baptism by fire. She had been alone and then, quite simply, she was not alone. 
    How could she be alone when the flames spoke? They could not tell her where her mother had gone, but they spoke all the same. And being alone was not the same with the sun hanging fat overhead where it was meant to be anyway.

    There is even some comfort to be found in the moon and the stars after so much impenetrable darkness. The darkness which had taken so much from her. Not just her mother but the horns she had inherited from her father, too. But it had given her things, too. It had given her fire, the flames singing in her hair. (It had been the sun, though, that had given her the ring of fire hanging heavy just above her brow.)

    She wonders about the woman trapped in the rain, if she had found her way back to her aloneness. Overhead, the stars watch as she makes her way toward the river where she had met a boy once with shells in his hair. How young she had been then. 

    They cast their own light, the both of them. It is this that draws her to him.
    Isn’t it wonderful?” she asks him, smiling tenderly, bell-soft. “The moon,” she clarifies, tipping back her head to peer up at it. The fire follows and, as she raises her gaze skyward, a flurry of fireflies ascends in a tight spiral, as if intent on drawing the moon down out of the sky for her. 

    I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it until it came back.

    and if i go, i’m goin’ shameless
    I’ll let my hunger take me there




    @[firion]
    Reply
    #3

    that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried

    There is a tenderness to her as she approaches and the different parts of Firion rise to acknowledge it. The part that comes first is his cynicism. It is cruel and cutting and it rises up his throat quickly. He feels the edge of his hunger, that need to squash the light within her. He can feel the shadows wrap around his throat as he practically tastes the despair that he could drag out of her. The ways that he could make her break. All of the ways that he has learned to break others over the years—none more than himself.

    But it is not the only part of him that rises its weary head.

    His mother’s son also comes. The boy who was quick to laughter and eager for adventure. Who loved his mother’s gentle glow and quiet voice—her softness, even amongst the darkness of her life. His love for his mother’s softness stays his hand and gentles his harsh features as he acknowledges her fully.

    “I prefer the moon to the sun,” he answers honestly, although perhaps it is not honest to say that he likes the night. It is his domain now—perhaps always was—but he does not love it. Is charged by it. Thrilled by it. But does not love it. Does not prefer it over the sunshine he will ache for for the rest of his days.

    There is a sadness to his smile as he casts his golden gaze to her, studying her flames.

    “I wonder if it missed you back,” his smile turns crooked, flirtation sharpening his features as he falls back into the ease of that persona. It was so much easier to pretend to be this casual ruffian than his own self. It always would be. He leans down, whispering conspiratorially. “Would you like me to ask it?”

    so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried




    @[elodie]
    Reply
    #4
    elodie
    It is a teasing thing, she knows. She can see it in his smile, the way he asks it. She has never encountered a magic that allows for conversations with the moon, but the thought spurs her pulse into a frenzy all the same. 

    (She knows that even if he were to ask it, the moon would say no. She is not a thing meant to be missed, Elodie. She is a thing made to be left. Her father had gone before she’d ever had the chance to meet him and her mother had eventually gone, too.)

    I think I know how it would answer,” she says but there is no grief in it, no trace of the sadness she’d seen in his smile. The same way they’d all answer, she thinks without self-pity. She had so fiercely missed her mother in the beginning, had searched tirelessly through the dark for any trace of her, only to realize that not everyone could be built for keeping. “I’m not the sort of thing made to be missed,” she tells him then, rolling her dark shoulders in a shrug, such a plain truth. 

    She shifts her weight, studying him in the glow -- both his own and the flicker of her new flame. “You didn’t miss the sun?” she asks, head tilted. It is an assumption, one she knows better than to make. Had she missed the sun? Would the light have made it any easier to find the mother who had slipped so easily into the darkness? There, that same twinge of uneasiness in the cavern of her chest when she thinks of how readily she had gone.

    and if i go, i’m goin’ shameless
    I’ll let my hunger take me there



    @[firion]
    Reply
    #5

    that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried

    Her softness tempers the demon that bites and scratches under the surface. She is like his mother. Like Iridian. She is a soft, sweet thing and although he is a clumsy man, he has always had a desire to shield such things from the truth of him. So he does a little longer. He does his best to not be the cursed boy that he had been or the damned stallion he had grown up to be. He does his best to be anything but what he was. He molds himself into someone kind and gentle, someone who lets her talk to the moon.

    Someone who watches her with soft eyes, ignoring everything that rages within him.

    “I don’t think the moon would answer how you think,” he muses, glancing upward at it. Gently, he lets his magic wind upward until the light brightens into a nearly living thing. A silvery thing, the threads of which dance downward and around Elodie. He lets them wash over her like silk, raining down in a dry wash of milky light that cups her cheek, glides underneath her chin—and within that silvery light, he infuses a sweet melody. Something a touch melancholy. A touch gentle. A longing, loving noise.

    He smiles before lifting his eyes upward. “It sounds to me like it missed you,” his voice is quiet, wondering what it would be like to be missed. To have someone ache for him. He has only really known how to hide himself or burn bridges. Getting lost in the in-between. So he lets the silence between them stretch for a moment before he answers her question, his tail flicking against his hocks like a twitch.

    “It’s complicated,” he hedges, unwilling to dive too deep into the truth.

    “I would have told you how much I preferred the sun once, but it never preferred me.”

    He turns his gaze back to her. “Most things I prefer are like that.”

    so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried



    @[elodie]
    Reply
    #6
    elodie
    Just as she is not a thing made for being missed, she is not a thing made for arguing, so she does not open her mouth to insist that he is wrong. She is graceful in defeat and accepts this loss with a slanted smile. (It does not mean that she believes him, no, it only means that she is not willing to quarrel about it any longer. She will let him have this victory.)

    But he turns his attention away from her then, looks up at the moon and she follows his gaze. If there had been any fight left in her, certainly it would have been silenced by what she sees. She is stunned into absolute stillness by the silver threads of light he pulls out of the sky, her eyes wide in breathless wonder as they curl so tenderly around her. How sweetly they caress her, crooning, and she wants to watch them but she cannot seem to tear her gaze away from him.

    For the space of a breath, there is nothing but this song and the thunder of her pulse and then-

    And then the light retreats and she is left staring at him, chest heaving. How casually he speaks next, as if he had not just commanded the moon to come down and sing for her. She barely hears his answer to the question she’d almost forgotten she’d asked, but the answer will linger in the back of her mind, somewhere just within reach so that she can come back to it. Examine it closely. Ask him what it means. 

    How did you do that?” she whispers finally, still breathless. 

    and if i go, i’m goin’ shameless
    I’ll let my hunger take me there



    @[firion]
    Reply
    #7

    that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried

    Firion doesn’t know what he’s made for.

    Once, he thought he was a thing made for leisure and love and adventure. He was, after all, a creature born from love—dark though it may be. He thought perhaps he was brought into this world to enjoy the spoils of it. A gift from parents who had done nothing but suffer. He thought perhaps he was to be their sunset. A family life cloaked in ease. But it had been a fool’s dream—a child’s wish.

    Because he had instead suffered, just as his parents before him.

    The curse had found him and everything he had thought he had known as a child had twisted upon itself. he had been cast to the night and watched, again and again and again, as the sun set and death came upon him. And when he had finally lifted the curse? Only more death had come. More tragedy.

    But, with her, he does his best to forget. He tries to be the son of leisure and ease that he had once thought was possible. He smiles gently at her and watches as she stares in awe at the moon that he pulls down and lets dance around her. It strikes a chord within him at the way it affects her and something in him eases, a tension that he is not always aware that he is holding. Perhaps the truth of him that he squirrels away. The boy that he desperately hides behind insult or flirtation or by simply running away.

    Firion lets that boy shine for a moment from his demonic face, the handsome angles smoothing.

    “Magic,” he replies simply, flexing his powers once more so that the moonlight cascades down once more and then splinters into a million pieces. The fragmented light swirls around them like fireflies, illuminating her face and weaving between them. His breath catches as he tries to remember the last time he let himself simply enjoy something—let alone enjoy the gifts that Beqanna had thrust upon him.

    He smiles at her, nearly boyish.

    “Do you like it?”

    so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried



    @[Elodie]
    Reply
    #8
    elodie
    Magic.

    If she could swallow all that moonlight, she thinks, she would.
    If she could let it light her up from the inside, she would.

    It shatters around them, illuminating the air, and the fireflies scatter in such delirious frenzy. But she cannot take her eyes off him. (Is it wonder or is it something else?) For a moment, all she is aware of is how her heart beats sideways in the cavern of her chest and how the shafts of light catch in his eyes. 

    But she is a simple thing, Elodie. So easily taken by magic.

    And he smiles at her and she thinks this must be magic, too.

    The answer is so plain. Too plain. Yes, of course she likes it. Can he not tell by how clearly he has rendered her speechless? Arrested the air in her lungs? Look at this breathless wonder! In her face, there is something trapped. In the expression something caught between a smile and a frown. Glee and confusion. 

    (How can she dwell on how alone she has been when the moon had missed her? How can this be the only thing she cares about when it had bent down and sung so sweetly to her? How can anything else at all matter when he had saw to it to make it so?)

    Who are you?” she asks finally, still so terribly quiet. 
    Does she hesitate to ask it because she does not truly want to know?
    Does she know that she will not be the same in knowing?

    and if i go, i’m goin’ shameless
    I’ll let my hunger take me there



    @[firion]
    Reply
    #9

    that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried

    Beneath the pain, beneath the million ways that he has tried to bury it, there is just a boy next to her. A golden boy who loves to laugh and loves to run. Who loves the mountains of Hyaline. Who loves his parents. Who would live an easy, carefree life if he could. There’s a boy who has never known a moment of doubt or a moment of pain. Who would live each and every day of his life like that, if he could.

    It’s that boy that stares back at her.

    Who forgets about the demonic magic that curls in his veins. Who forgets about the curse that had taken him to the grave every night. Who forgets about the hurt he has inflicted on so many others.

    He’s just a boy who is watching a girl smile and it’s enough.

    His smile spreads, softer than usual, and he wishes that he could carve out this moment forever. Could live trapped in the gentleness of it—the easy wonder. “Firion,” he answers honestly, not wanting to be coy with her or pretend. Not wanting to be a magician. Not wanting any of the things waiting for him.

    Firion knows he could take anything he wanted from her head in this moment. Could grab her name. Could find everything he could possible every want to know—but he doesn’t. Because he wants to hear it from her lips. Wants to only know the pieces of herself that she chooses to share with him now.

    “Who are you?” he asks with another quirk of his lip, “You who make the moon pine.”

    A soft laugh as the silvery light continues to flood over them, warm, infinite.

    so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried



    @[elodie]
    Reply
    #10
    elodie
    Was it his name she’d been after?
    His name, Firion, or something deeper?

    If she is Elodie, who makes the moon pine then he is Firion, who bends the moon to his will.
    He is Firion, who commands it. She is Elodie, who wonders what else he can do.

    She is not wise or discerning or studious, Elodie. She cannot see that there is something Other in his smile. All she sees is the boy standing before her, the boy he presents to her. Soft, kind, golden. A boy he had been once and no longer is. A ghost. 

    But she smiles at him and he smiles back and this is what is most important. He pulls the moonlight down around her, commands it to sing so softly to her. He stays when she is a thing made to be left and this is important, too. He tells her his name and this means something, though she does not know what yet. Firion.

    He asks her who she is, too. 

    Elodie,” she tells him, though she does not know why. She had not been asking for his name, so why had she given him hers?

    I don’t really know who I am beyond that,” she continues and then exhales a breath of laughter, heat pooling in her cheeks. Embarrassment. “Beyond my name, I mean.” She turns her focus to the shafts of moonlight, the fireflies that dance in its glow. This is a kindness she does not deserve, this lie about the moon and its longing. 

    What about you?” she asks, tilts her head and the fire follows. “Who are you, beyond Firion?


    and if i go, i’m goin’ shameless
    I’ll let my hunger take me there


    @[firion]
    Reply




    Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)