09-16-2016, 08:50 PM
The quiet lasts long enough for the strange stallion I slept so close to to nod, shake himself a bit, and murmur his name. And there’s a familiar gravelly note to it, one I know so well from my older brother Drow when he was younger and had more jagged edges, and spent so many nights screaming at the moon ‘til his voice gave out. God, I miss him. The way he’d curl around me like I was something sacred needing his devotion, his protection. The way he’d croon to me in a darker, deeper version of our mother’s low voice, borrowing the haunting melodies of her jungle songs to lull me to sleep.
I miss them all.
“It’s nice to meet you, Gunsynd. You remind me of--” But there’s no time to finish the thought. Another strange man, this one with a look in his eye I know far too well. How many times have my eyes seen what wasn’t there in front of me? How many thought me mad over the years for the apparitions that held more of my attention than the world around me? Mine was a quiet distraction, though; this one seems to be taking more violently to the unsettling way the world has of not quite fitting what the senses perceive.
I rise to my feet carefully, quietly, even as Gunsynd steps forward to face the stranger in the throes of madness. And I step forward too, but with my head lowered, crooning those gentle sounds of comfort and reassurance my mother and my brother used on me when I was young and confused. Or older and still so confused. My approach is far less direct than Gunsynd’s, more roundabout, more circumspect. There’s no aggression in my posture, nothing fierce or threatening, just a quiet acceptance of the many and varied shapes madness can take.
“There now, friend,” I murmur softly, taking another step closer. “It’s alright. Tell me what you see, honey. Sometimes it helps to share it. Doesn’t always mean what you think it does, you know.” The twists and turns of the mind like to talk in riddles sometimes, and it’s easy to find the wrong answer when the path becomes a maze and your compass isn’t pointing in the right direction.
Don't I know it.
I miss them all.
“It’s nice to meet you, Gunsynd. You remind me of--” But there’s no time to finish the thought. Another strange man, this one with a look in his eye I know far too well. How many times have my eyes seen what wasn’t there in front of me? How many thought me mad over the years for the apparitions that held more of my attention than the world around me? Mine was a quiet distraction, though; this one seems to be taking more violently to the unsettling way the world has of not quite fitting what the senses perceive.
I rise to my feet carefully, quietly, even as Gunsynd steps forward to face the stranger in the throes of madness. And I step forward too, but with my head lowered, crooning those gentle sounds of comfort and reassurance my mother and my brother used on me when I was young and confused. Or older and still so confused. My approach is far less direct than Gunsynd’s, more roundabout, more circumspect. There’s no aggression in my posture, nothing fierce or threatening, just a quiet acceptance of the many and varied shapes madness can take.
“There now, friend,” I murmur softly, taking another step closer. “It’s alright. Tell me what you see, honey. Sometimes it helps to share it. Doesn’t always mean what you think it does, you know.” The twists and turns of the mind like to talk in riddles sometimes, and it’s easy to find the wrong answer when the path becomes a maze and your compass isn’t pointing in the right direction.
Don't I know it.