01-15-2021, 08:16 PM
it's a mystery to me
we have a greed with which we have agreed. you think you have to want more than you need; until you have it all you won't be free. and when you think more than you want, your thoughts begin to bleed.
The circle of life continues; they are born, they live, they die, and their world continues to move through the cosmos. Wishbone knows it is difficult to predict when Death will shadow one’s face and whisper to the heart “you can rest now,” but she understands that it almost always will come. Their fragile bodies stretch towards life with every fiber; sometimes they are ready and sometimes they are not. Wishbone certainly hadn’t been ready for Death — she had fought against the saltwater and she had pressed against the weight of Ivar above her — yet she had spent time in the Afterlife nonetheless.
She keeps her eyes on the swathe of Tephra below them as Lilliana gives the names of the fallen. Wishbone imagines them (Ghaul, Lepis, those whose faces were too damaged to comprehend) in that gray world now, and again she wonders if it looks different to them than it had to her. She had been unwilling to see Death’s face, but if they had relaxed into the flames, then maybe their Afterlife is full of color. She recognizes Lepis’s name. They had been about the same age — young and vibrant — and they had blossomed into leadership roles in their youth. Wishbone can’t say they had been friends, and their encounters had only ever been political, but she can acknowledge the thread of grief that winds against her heart. Regret, too; she wishes she could have known Lepis on a deeper level.
Silence falls between the pair of them. The quiet is heavy and thick, a knot of emotions and memories that dwells between them like a sleeping behemoth. It makes Wishbone feel choked even in the cool, thin air that their altitude provides. Slowly, her amber eyes turn to Lilliana’s face. While the red mare looks at the world below them, Wishbone can see the grief that twists the color of her sky-blue eyes a few shades darker. Dread begins to pour into her, a cold waterfall filling her from her toes to the very brim of her head.
“They said there was a curse.”
Those six words are the catalyst that solidifies the dread and turns it into the heavy weight of grief.
Those six words are the only confirmation she needs to know that he had been in Loess during the fire.
Wishbone’s breath audibly catches in her throat as she looks at the profile of Lilliana’s slender face. There has only ever been one curse that the obsidian mare has known about, and her suspicions had been confirmed the last time she had seen Wolfbane. How many times had they huddled together beneath the shading fronds of Tephra’s undergrowth, shrinking into each other’s sides while Longclaw stormed from beach-to-beach? How often had she swam too far or climbed too high or ran too fast to keep the shadows from darkening Wolfbane’s eyes, to keep the echo of his father’s raging voice from reaching his ears? She had seen that darkness in Longclaw, and then she had seen it in Wolfbane.
And then she hadn’t seen him again. “Say no more.” Her voice is an echo — a whisper — and the noise of a breeze almost carries it away. Wishbone’s ears flatten into the knots of her mane, a feeble attempt to dissuade her mind from thinking about his shimmering gold-and-blue frame turning to ash beneath the tongues of flame. She had wondered when the curse would finally claim his soul along with his mind. Hadn’t Longclaw burned in the mouth of his own fire, sweeping the stain of the curse off the face of their world? And yet, the blood of a father will still run thick, even when he has fallen. It seems fitting that Wolfbane would fade at the hand of a fiery Death, just as his father did, and she almost smiles.
She sucks in a slow, smooth breath to compensate for the way her heart feels tight yet swollen. It calms her slightly, this cold rush of air into her chest, and Wishbone turns her face back toward the view of the treetops. “Let’s keep walking,” she says, and her voice is sturdy this time. The circle of life continues; they are born, they live, they die, and their world continues to move through the cosmos. She can only hope Wolfbane had been ready to die, so his Afterlife might be full of far more colors than hers had.
As they turn back onto the trail, Wishbone says, “The curse is in his family. Wolfbane and I grew up together, and we spent a lot of time protecting each other from his father.” Longclaw had been a guard for Tephra, but who he was off-duty was far different from who he was greeting strangers or patrolling the borders. “The last time I saw him” — her throat feels swollen, the hand of grief clasping beneath her jaw, and so her voice comes out even rougher than normal — “I knew the curse had found him. He was so different from the Bane I knew, and I had seen that darkness before.” She had still slept under the winter sky with him, even when she could almost hear the voices whispering lies into his ears. When dawn rose, he was gone, and as a long list of others, she hasn’t seen him since.
The steep incline of their path burns her muscles, and Wishbone wills it to burn the sadness out of her. She wants it to consume her; each step she takes closer to the summit is a movement she hopes will make the memories of Wolfbane turn to something gentle and sweet (instead of the red-hot pain they feel like now). Yet, she cannot erase the sight of Lilliana’s own grief darkening her eyes. Her newfound companion has been feeling the sting of Wolfbane’s death since the fires burned. “How did you know Wolfbane, Lilliana?” Perhaps it will ease their pain, to share the weight of grief between one another.
She keeps her eyes on the swathe of Tephra below them as Lilliana gives the names of the fallen. Wishbone imagines them (Ghaul, Lepis, those whose faces were too damaged to comprehend) in that gray world now, and again she wonders if it looks different to them than it had to her. She had been unwilling to see Death’s face, but if they had relaxed into the flames, then maybe their Afterlife is full of color. She recognizes Lepis’s name. They had been about the same age — young and vibrant — and they had blossomed into leadership roles in their youth. Wishbone can’t say they had been friends, and their encounters had only ever been political, but she can acknowledge the thread of grief that winds against her heart. Regret, too; she wishes she could have known Lepis on a deeper level.
Silence falls between the pair of them. The quiet is heavy and thick, a knot of emotions and memories that dwells between them like a sleeping behemoth. It makes Wishbone feel choked even in the cool, thin air that their altitude provides. Slowly, her amber eyes turn to Lilliana’s face. While the red mare looks at the world below them, Wishbone can see the grief that twists the color of her sky-blue eyes a few shades darker. Dread begins to pour into her, a cold waterfall filling her from her toes to the very brim of her head.
“They said there was a curse.”
Those six words are the catalyst that solidifies the dread and turns it into the heavy weight of grief.
Those six words are the only confirmation she needs to know that he had been in Loess during the fire.
Wishbone’s breath audibly catches in her throat as she looks at the profile of Lilliana’s slender face. There has only ever been one curse that the obsidian mare has known about, and her suspicions had been confirmed the last time she had seen Wolfbane. How many times had they huddled together beneath the shading fronds of Tephra’s undergrowth, shrinking into each other’s sides while Longclaw stormed from beach-to-beach? How often had she swam too far or climbed too high or ran too fast to keep the shadows from darkening Wolfbane’s eyes, to keep the echo of his father’s raging voice from reaching his ears? She had seen that darkness in Longclaw, and then she had seen it in Wolfbane.
And then she hadn’t seen him again. “Say no more.” Her voice is an echo — a whisper — and the noise of a breeze almost carries it away. Wishbone’s ears flatten into the knots of her mane, a feeble attempt to dissuade her mind from thinking about his shimmering gold-and-blue frame turning to ash beneath the tongues of flame. She had wondered when the curse would finally claim his soul along with his mind. Hadn’t Longclaw burned in the mouth of his own fire, sweeping the stain of the curse off the face of their world? And yet, the blood of a father will still run thick, even when he has fallen. It seems fitting that Wolfbane would fade at the hand of a fiery Death, just as his father did, and she almost smiles.
She sucks in a slow, smooth breath to compensate for the way her heart feels tight yet swollen. It calms her slightly, this cold rush of air into her chest, and Wishbone turns her face back toward the view of the treetops. “Let’s keep walking,” she says, and her voice is sturdy this time. The circle of life continues; they are born, they live, they die, and their world continues to move through the cosmos. She can only hope Wolfbane had been ready to die, so his Afterlife might be full of far more colors than hers had.
As they turn back onto the trail, Wishbone says, “The curse is in his family. Wolfbane and I grew up together, and we spent a lot of time protecting each other from his father.” Longclaw had been a guard for Tephra, but who he was off-duty was far different from who he was greeting strangers or patrolling the borders. “The last time I saw him” — her throat feels swollen, the hand of grief clasping beneath her jaw, and so her voice comes out even rougher than normal — “I knew the curse had found him. He was so different from the Bane I knew, and I had seen that darkness before.” She had still slept under the winter sky with him, even when she could almost hear the voices whispering lies into his ears. When dawn rose, he was gone, and as a long list of others, she hasn’t seen him since.
The steep incline of their path burns her muscles, and Wishbone wills it to burn the sadness out of her. She wants it to consume her; each step she takes closer to the summit is a movement she hopes will make the memories of Wolfbane turn to something gentle and sweet (instead of the red-hot pain they feel like now). Yet, she cannot erase the sight of Lilliana’s own grief darkening her eyes. Her newfound companion has been feeling the sting of Wolfbane’s death since the fires burned. “How did you know Wolfbane, Lilliana?” Perhaps it will ease their pain, to share the weight of grief between one another.
@[lilliana]