let my shadows prove the sunshine
Svedka hadn’t been in the afterlife long enough, he supposes. Part of him is thankful for that; his time there had been brief (however tormenting) and thus he has found that adjusting back into the life he once led is increasingly becoming easier with each day. The gnarled and twisting scar on his left shoulder is a terrible reminder, even as it heals (and even more so than it would have on its own, from his moonlit conversation with Ryatah) and every so often he can remember the feeling of his skin separating from itself, from its bone. He remembers no longer breathing, the life and blood stuttering out of him in an ugly mess before an uncaring stallion. Often he would awaken in the middle of the night in a gasp having forgotten he was quite in fact alive and that the dark eyes of Carnage were always watching. Was he watching their children? The twins had been a shock - brought back from the afterlife with him, born from his own flesh in a way only magic could create.
Svedka hadn’t meant to become careless of the two (especially the girl, with those lion eyes), but he wouldn’t admit that his heart did not weep for the absence as he would have with his own daughters he shares with Ilma.
Realizing suddenly that silence has taken over for too long, the sun-and-sky stallion blinks himself back into the present. They are not in the afterlife, he reminds himself with a gentle snort as his cerulean gaze falls back to the familiar irises of Wishbone, despite the fact that the color of her face doesn’t quite match. “A strange experience with a bunch of strangers,” Svedka echoes in a voice that is unlike himself, almost shadowy. The description is uncannily familiar and it sends a shiver running down the curve of his spine. His brow furrows and he finds a frown creasing the pink of his lips as Wishbone calls on her power to give them both the wave of relief that finally washes over their weary faces.
“Good,” the elder breathes with a tattered sigh. In a moment, however, he is at her side so that she may rest against the myriad of ivory and pale gold of his body, supporting her with a soft grunt as he adjusts his weight to carry most of her own. Silence befalls them both once again and the stallion looks out beyond, into the heart of Tephra. “I wasn’t there long,” he confesses to his sister with a tightness in his throat, “and maybe I’m lucky that I was dragged out so soon.” He cannot help but tremble beside her - not in weakness, but a mere physical reaction to the waves of trauma that still pummel through him.
“Part of me is still there, I think.”
svedka
@[Wishbone]