[open] there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail; any

[rapt]

rapt

rapt.

I need you to be a monster
which is to say, I am trying not to love you

Rapt’s mouth is dry when he wakes.
He sleeps a lot, it seems, maybe too much. He feels strange sometimes, languid, like the very gold of him has melted and only barely reformed. He folds his legs beneath himself and rises slowly to his feet, a faint ache in the joints that did not used to be there. He is not old, not yet, but he is older, feels the faint signs of it as his muscles ache easier, the faintest blur around his vision. He moves closer to the river, taking in the sweet sound of water, drinks until the taste of dust is gone from his mouth.
It is quiet here. Rapt knows, vaguely, of distant turmoil, lands collapsed and made from nothing, but he does not overly concern himself with him, nor they him. Rapt is not much of an asset of a threat, a golden stallion with the ability to heal himself and little else. He’s certainly not a warrior, nor is he particularly smart – he has a long string of bad choices in his wake that speaks volumes about him. He has a child, but does not know what’s become of him, hasn’t seen they boy in years. He hopes Abysm is still alive, believes, deep inside, that he is – surely Rapt would feel it if he wasn’t, would feel an ache in the secret place inside of him that had, impossibly, born his son.
I would know, he tells himself when his son crosses his mind, I would know.

Water drips from his lips and falls light onto the grass underfoot as he moves away. The stiffness in his joints is soon gone as the sun warms his pale gold skin, softens the glow of his mane and tail.
And on Rapt moves through the grass beside the river because for the first time in a long time, he feels like moving.

which is to say, I am still dreaming of kissing your claws

whats up i've forgotten how to write