"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
11-13-2016, 07:26 PM (This post was last modified: 11-13-2016, 07:29 PM by bruise.)
Today was turning out to be much more interesting than he had first assumed.
He had woken up still trapped in a prison that felt like his own body and yet wasn’t. He appreciated the weight of his horn, the weapon it could be, but it was alien and wrong. He much preferred the blunt force of the horns that now curled from either side of his head, the split in his hooves, the powers that flowed like poison through his veins. He had begun his search for those for who would receive restored powers; it was a calculated search that would take time. He would not give freely to any except his father.
Each would be a choice he made carefully.
Each would be given a gift with strings, expectations.
Which was all well and good, except it did not appease the hunger that rumbled in his stomach. It did not appease the beast that was wakening with each step, the thirst to feel the power of the Fear stretch out beneath his fingertips. He had felt it once, when he was young and milk-drunk. It had been intoxicating then to watch the young mare, foolish and selfless, give into it and fall to her knees. He had fallen in love with the way her pretty green eyes had rolled back into her skull, in the way she had dropped.
That was love, and he could not wait to taste it again.
He saw her before she saw him. Something like an itch beneath his skin, something that pointed him toward her. This time, he did not ask of things stolen from her or what she would be willing to do to get them back. But still, he asked. He slowed near her, his horned head dipping low. “Hello, there.” His voice was low, even, as he came to a stop, his dark gaze unwavering. “What do you fear the most?”
When I was a ghost girl, a quiet girl, an invisible girl, I could see the world more clearly. The vibrations of daily life do not distract me or persuade me into the loving embrace of existence. I like being able to peep through my spyglass into the lives of these lost and forgotten souls and see the ugliness that lies beneath.
I have noticed that I have missed the constant chatter of undead in my ears. My world is too quiet in this cage of flesh and bone. I do not miss the way my silver eyes can see their rotting flesh and missing jaws with wagging tongues but the world seems so much lonelier even without the occupancy of purgatorial beings.
His voice catches me off guard as I have been drifting in between worlds again. His voice is sharp glass pressing into the tenderness of my ears. It's splinters can not be ignored as it penetrates my aura. Silver eyes look from beneath the multicolored forelock, my eyes rotate curiously in their sockets till they fall on his liquid mercury coat. I can see his lips parting to further fill the air around us with pieced together syllables.
His question disturbs me.
"You do." I speak candidly as I stare. I do not necessarily mean 'you' in the sense of 'you' but horses...the living frighten me with their sharp tongues and shifting eyes. With the dead, I know their desires.
They hunger.
They hunger for revenge, for love, for peace. Their unrelenting hunger is easy to read in the depths of maggot ridden eye sockets, in the crushed bone fragmented legs, the way their cries wail from ripped and torn ragged chest holes. But the living are much more tricky. They plot and connive.
Bruise hungered, but not for the things she may have imagined.
He had no desire for love, for peace, for revenge. He did not thirst for worldly things, did not burn with the ambition of his forefathers. He was content to see his father upon the throne without entertaining thoughts of his own ascent. Bruise’s mind was angled toward other things, more insidious things. Things that had haunted him since he had made his way down the mountain, when he had first seen just how beautiful of a thing it was to watch a mare sink to the ground, her body slumped and empty.
He hungered for that same Fear he had wielded that day—the beauty of it.
At her answer, his smile grew cold and wide, his flat eyes measuring her carefully. “Good,” he said carefully, his voice monotone and lifeless. He did not need to know that she did not fear him specifically; he did not care. He breathed in deep and could feel it on the air, her fear and despondence. It was purer and more beautiful a feeling than he could ever imagine or ever try to explain to someone. How could he put into words the majesty of feeding off of someone’s pure fear? Of gorging himself on the emotion.
“What is your name?” he questioned, although it sounded more of a command. Taking a step, he closed the distance between them, his body humming with the Fear on the air, although he did not call upon it yet. He did not need to enhance this moment or induce it. He simply needed to appreciate the honesty and rawness of her emotion. “Tell me more about your Fear,” he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, growing smoother, more velvety. He shivered slightly as he held onto her gaze. “Tell me now.”
