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    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


    make your fathers proud, thorn
    #1
    It had been painful.
    So dreadfully painful.

    She had writhed and panted and, at one particularly dark point, begged for death to take her. It had felt wrong and dangerous and the child was stubborn in its want to stay where it was warm and safe. And then, finally, she had emerged. Black like Prayer, smoky white like her father, Thorn. And Prayer had buried her face in the filly’s perfect neck and she had wept.

    It would have been simple, easy, to heal herself. All she had to do was close her eyes and think it. But she had not. She had wrapped the filly up in her hot embrace and held her close and relished in the pain of it. Let it love their daughter even more fiercely. Because the pain had served a purpose, it had brought her their child. A perfect little girl who fidgeted and murmured into her mother’s skin. Prayer had never seen a more beautiful thing.

    Days passed. And then weeks. And their child stood upright, proud, by the time Prayer worked up enough courage to seek him out. It took several more days. The journey was long, punctuated by long periods of rest because the child was still young and the legs could only carry her so far. And it would have been easy for Prayer to heal her, too, to eradicate the exhaustion. But it was important and difficult and she wanted the difficulty to prove just how important it was.

    And when the child asked, Prayer told her exactly where they were headed. To find her father.

    It is painful still, when she catches sight of him finally. The initial wave of relief immediately drowned out by the hurt that consumes her when she lands eyes on him. On the bleeding wound. When she remembers how he’d begged her not to touch him.

    There he is,” she whispers to their child, nodding in his direction. And the little girl tilts her little head, but she does not register the bleeding chest wound. She only grins and says, “he looks like me.” And it is their child’s innocence that gives her the courage she needs to close up all the space between them.

    Thorn,” she sighs, fixing her focus to his face, “I want you to meet somebody.” She glances down at their daughter then, their daughter who is wearing a nervous grin, like she’s not sure he’ll like her. “This is your daughter, Basilica.


    @[thorn]
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    #2
    "Oh," Thorn says, settling a startled lilac gaze on his daugther. "Oh . . ." he follows up in a whisper. He can feel his heart begin to race. Blood pounds loudly in his ears. His breath hitches. Oh, he says, but not really, as the noise falls on empty lungs. Instead, his mouth is cracked open just the slightest.

    He does not breath.

    She looks nervous, the little girl, and it tears the cursed man in two. One half of him wilts beneath the weight of a daughter he is not there for, and one half boils and runs over with fear. Away, he thinks. Away. Only broken sentences make it through his mind. Daughter, he thinks. Daughter.

    "Prayer," he says, the name stretching on a long whisper. Thorn's eyes don't stray from Basilica. "She's beautiful." It's hard to say that. Two simple and true words that fight tooth and nail to find a way out of his mouth.

    "But why did you come here?"

    Those words do not battle to find purchase, and now the sabino looks up at Prayer with bitter, betrayed eyes.

    "She shouldn't see this."

    A snap. He can't control himself. Everything spins, in the tragic and evil way it has been since he met Clegane - Thorn is too disorientated to pick apart his anger.

    He only knows it feels better when he's alone.


    @[prayer] Sad
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    #3
    She wants so desperately to feel some deep swell of pride when he looks at their daughter, but she feels nothing but worry. Worry that he’ll send them away mostly. Send the both of them away the same way he’d sent her away.

    It gets her eyes burning as she glances between the two of them. He doesn’t smile, it’s not hard to notice. Her heart thumps brutal in her ears as she watches the child shuffle a little closer. Perhaps lulled into some sense of security when he calls her beautiful. Convinced, maybe, that he likes her.

    But the child stops short and her mother’s brow furrows deep in a pained frown when he speaks next. The child shrinks and Prayer has to force herself to look him in the eye. As much as it pains her. Because it is such a far cry from the way he’d looked at her the first time. Such a far cry from the magic of their laughter.

    But they’d been young then. And the world has taken him and broken him apart and she is so desperate to help. She has no fight in her, Prayer, she never has. She just draws in a shaky breath and swallows real thick, glancing briefly back at their daughter before she speaks.

    You’re her father,” she whispers, “she’s your daughter. Why shouldn’t she know who you are?” She asks, so quiet that it’s barely there at all.

    We love you,” she adds and her voice shakes. She meets his eye again, meeting his betrayal with silent pleading. 



    @[Thorn]
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