[open] I think I made you up inside my head; any

[aegean]

Aegean

I should have loved a thunderbird instead
at least when spring comes they roar back again

Aegean does not have much experience with pain so he has no way of naming this dull ache in his chest. He has no words for the way that some of the world around him has been bled of its color, the stars losing their shine, the night sky turning nearly monotone. He does not know how to explain the way that he still wanders but it does not feel endlessly hopeful; his feet weigh heavy and his tongue is dry. His throat tight.

He has little words for the way that each breath draws knives into his lungs.

The way he wakes confused and reaching for something that is never there.

Today his wanderings take him south of Taiga and Hyaline, although the forest is still dense. It reminds him of his last time in the wooden lands and the thought leaves his chest throbbing with that unnamed pain. His purple eyes shut for a moment as he breathes around it, lets the pain swell up into his throat to leave a bitter taste in his mouth before it washes out and settles, falling like dust through his ribcage.

When they open again, he takes a second to let them focus before he flicks an ear to catch the sound of the water rushing somewhere beyond his current eyesight. It will be dark soon, he thinks, glancing up to catch the barest hint of dying light filtering between the trees and, almost as a comfort, he begins to paint his illusions around him. It darkens the sky and brings the stars down around him, almost like a blanket.

He gives himself the illusion of weight, of gravity, and when he moves forward, it feels as though he is moving underwater—the night sky pressing upon the curve of his spine. It is fitting, he thinks, as though he were breathing in that vast endlessness of space and when he reaches the riverbank, his exhale is long and slow, nostrils flaring. With the slightest tip of his chin, he sends the stars around him into a spinning array, keeping letting them illuminate the roaring river below before he sends some of them crashing into the waves, sending faux spray upward as though the plummeting star fire truly disturbed the water.

Aegean swallows, tips his antlered head back, and breathes in the abyss.

He does not notice that he glows as bright as his creations.

He does not notice when someone enters his space.

He just breathes.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

[Larva]

i will be brutal

Larva used to know how to feel sad about the things he’d done and the hurt he’d caused. He used to know just how to pronounce ‘I’m sorry’ and mean it every time. But age and numerous deaths have scraped that piece of him into the gutter and left him calloused down to his core. Still, there is something that recalls the folly of youth from time to time and it tries to trace the edges that have been worn down so far. If he thinks of Anemone, it all comes rushing back and he has to catch his breath before he moves again.

So when he sees Aegean standing here by the river, he recognizes that ache that knows no end even as time stretches on closer to infinity. Even at the edge of the galaxies, it would find them and pierce straight through. He almost laughs. Heartache knows no master, no expiration. He comes to stand beside the ghostly white figure and his scars almost shine in the setting spring sun. Slowly, his sage green eyes trace the sorrow across the boy’s face and then he clears his throat, as though Aegean could miss the tall stranger a few feet from him.

“I used to hate any kind of magic when I was younger. I was very stupid then,” he begins, his eyes tracing the made up constellations that the boy has made. He still hates any kind of tricks but he doesn’t say that aloud. “I’m still rather stupid but I’ve learned that everything gets better over time.”

And he laughs, remembering his first lifetime and how he thought he would never meet death.

“My name is Larva. You look like you need someone to listen and I need a break from my grandchildren.”

He shifts his great weight, tilting his head in an effort to see Aegean better. The old man seems to only have a soft spot for anyone who reminds him of himself, but perhaps his narcissism can benefit another this time.

@[aegean]

[aegean]

Aegean

I should have loved a thunderbird instead
at least when spring comes they roar back again

Aegean doesn’t notice the behemoth by his side until it begins speaking, but he doesn’t startle or spook. His purple eyes remain trained on the stars that he spins out of his imagination before him, watching as they crash into the water below and circle the sky above. His lips almost curve at the beauty of it, but there is something else that catches his breath, that holds him back, and when he finally does turn to look toward Larva, the bruises remain. He is surprised by how large the other stallion is, how the weight of age seems to settle into his bones and yet he looks as ready to take on the fight of life as any young one.

“I cannot imagine hating magic,” Aegean breathes, wondering at how anyone could hold the gift in front of him as as anything but pure and glorious. “But that doesn’t mean that you were stupid,” the word is clunky and he struggles to say it—always having preferred the prettier, more poetic words. The ones that blossom on his tongue and sweeten it like honey. “I think magic can be difficult to understand and, when wielded by the wrong user, it can have too keen of an edge.” Sorrow, briefly, as he looks back.

He can only hope the stallion had not been on the wrong side of it.

“I still don’t understand it, but I hope I am not the wrong user for these dreams.”

For that’s all they are—just waking dreams. Just taking a paintbrush to the skies.

When he looks back, he nods at the name and the smile flickers back, dreamy and unsettled on his impossibly white lips at the idea of grandchildren. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Larva. My name is Aegean.” There are other words but he struggles to articulate them—struggles to give structure to the thing within him that defies boundaries. How could he possibly articulate the smoke that threatens to choke him? The longing for something that which was never his? It would be like trying to be jealous of the stars—trying to possess the oceans in a breath. “I think we could all use someone to listen.”

He looks back, studying his face.

“Do you?”

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead
(I think I made you up inside my head.)