over the mountains of the moon down the valley of the shadow-
A
utumn has ever been his favorite time, in this world and every other.
Every morning clear and pale and precious, the fields limned in frost burned off as soon as the sun rises and turns the world golden. The cool breeze that sweeps in from the sea, the heavy scents of ripe fruits as they gathered up the last of the warmth before falling. And the color, oh! The world is a riot of scarlet and orange, of dusky purple and yellow bright as a bird.
He should be happy, then, as he walks from the wind-swept meadow and into Tinea, for the worst of the scars from last year’s rains are gone. The wildlife is back, each fieldmouse and meadowlark, and the sky is bright blue overhead.
But Isra is missing. But Seraphina is fallen. But Florentine is in Denocte, too stubborn to go where she might be safe.
Asterion presses into a run, the kind for forgetting, the kind that forces each breath from his lungs like a bellows. Not even Cirrus could keep up with him now, as he gallops too quickly to press the grasses flat beneath his hooves, as he urges himself on and on until every ounce of his Throughbred blood and sinew and muscle is forced into service. And for just a moment he wonders if this is as close as he will ever get to flying.
Too soon he is at the treeline, and it is this and not the burn of his lungs or the rush of his bloodstream that forces him to slow. He is euphoric from his run, light-headed and gasping. For the moment he has outrun memories of the meeting, and the trouble always on the horizon, and the way his thoughts circle him like dogs baying do something, do something.
He is not surprised to look up and find Leto there.
The king laughs, though maybe it is only a gasp for breath; then he shakes his head and considers her.
She looks no less wild and other than she had at the masquerade, when she had gone out into the night and he had let her, not following. He might be sorry for it, if he weren’t already sorry for so many things.
“Well, Leto?” he says, and leans forward, as though he might let the wind blow him away again.
Posted by: Abel - 03-07-2019, 11:01 AM - Forum: Archives
- Replies (4)
A b e l
I WILL OFFER UP A BRICK
TO THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD, BOY
The desert is a little better after dark.
Gone is the punishing sun, the hard stare that makes sweat bead down his back regardless of the breeze, that makes him wonder if Solis is still there and watching. (Surely not, surely if any of the gods still cast their eye over Novus one of them would have spoken by now, struck them all down).
In the dark it feels almost as cool as Denocte, though even when he closes his eyes it is nothing like home, not without the scent of salt over everything and the distant sigh of the sea. He misses the alleys he’d known, the cast of each shadow memorized, the torchlight and the bonfire-smoke. At least in the darkness he can forget his name.
For tonight he is only an enforcer, only one more of Raum’s followers. He stalks the windswept streets and most of them are empty. It is hard to argue with a Ghost, he thinks, and harder to argue with a monster - even the thought of the basilisk sends an instinctual shiver wending up his dark spine.
He finds as he walks that he is learning each corner, each intersecting street. He finds as he walks that he doesn’t mind the silence, even with the way the wind moans as it follows him, the way it tugs his hair like a mother might.
Abel rounds a corner and there she is: tall and slender with a face pale as a moon. He can tell from here how young she is (never mind that he is only a boy, too - he has not felt like a boy since he was weaned). The bay lowers his head with a soft huff of breath, stirring the sand beneath his feet, silver as powdered glass in the starlight. And then he makes a beeline for her, his silver eyes empty empty empty, and stops just short of her shoulder.
“It’s after curfew. You shouldn’t be out.” Even Abel is not sure if it is rebuke or warning.
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When Terrastella comes into view, she might have wept tears of joy had she not been so exhausted -- she has missed her home fiercely, between her time in Denocte and in Delumine, and her brief stay there for Asterion’s meeting had not been enough to ease the ache in her bones. The scent of salt in the air is a homecoming, her feet stumbling only slightly when she finally lands on the cobbled streets, and she ignores every strange look from the others at how her flank still lazily oozes blood every time the muscle flexes.
The wounds will heal, as they have always done -- already the blood is hardening, forming a protective layer over the tender flesh.
It’s almost instinct, what drives her towards the Halcyon base, towards the cadet buildings where they often sleep two or four to a room. Her new title is still a yet-to-be in her mind, something on the tip of her tongue -- at heart, she will always be Halcyon first, reporting home to the crowded halls no matter how the other cadets might stare. Before she can collapse in her bed, however, there is still a visit to be made -- she had, after all, been sent to Delumine on Halcyon orders.
“Commander,” She murmurs when she finally reaches the doorway of Marisol’s office, dark smudges beneath her lavender eyes, and she does her best to swallow the blush that threatens to engulf her cheeks. The commander has seen her vulnerable in so many ways, sprawled out on her knees and muttering fever-truths, and it’s a terrifying thing to stand in her doorway and pretend like none of it has ever happened.
She wishes she could face it, but Marisol is still the commander, and she is still the cadet -- except now… she isn’t, is she? They’ve reached some sort of shaky ground, here, where they are both in charge of each other, and she finds it suddenly hard to swallow past the lump in her throat.
“Atreus was successfully delivered to Delumine, although I’m sure you’ve heard reports of his welcome there by now. The seeds and supplies sent were also delivered into King Somnus’ grateful hands.” She settles for reciting her report, instead, although she is sure Marisol knows much of it already -- but there is something to be said for how soothing habit could be, when one was trying to avoid words they shouldn’t say.
He lowers his lips. The water is warm as flesh. He drinks, and his mouth is full of song.
He looks to the other pegasus as she swallows. When he stretches his wings (a good song will rip right through your body, demanding movement, and the song rolling down his throat is a fine one indeed)
-- When he stretches his wings he marvels at the heat that radiates from the golden water below. He looks to the sky, and thinks to himself that there must be an incredible updraft here. A wild grin (too large for his face) cracks across his features. It glows even when he tears his eyes away, back to the mare at the water. Flight in his eyes and song in his mouth and god all around; he feels unbreakable.
Another marvel, there would be many today: He's never seen eyes quite like hers before. The closest would be those of his own reflection, caught from time to time in the huge glass windows of the great hall. "Mischief eyes," his mother chided when she could tell he had been up to no good. Which was often. Looking at the bay mare before him now, he would maybe call them "cutting eyes."
God hums on his tongue, and a wordless song rises to his lips. "You have..." No, cutting eyes was not quite right. "You have summer eyes." His voice sounds a little older than he feels, a little fever-raw. "Were they always like that? Or is it the water?" Mateo is not often so cryptic, but right now he feels like an unwritten melody, like bright sun and hot black feathers, and maybe she will understand.
She hadn’t realized just what sort of uproar she was walking into, but the moment she arrived in Day Court, she could sense that something was brewing on the horizon. Something here was unsettling those that lived here. There were whispers in the street of someone who had killed the Day Court’s queen. Whispers that the stallion who had done so was mostly unwanted and unwelcome in this court. So naturally, the mare was interested. If the people didn’t want him here, then she would fight to keep him here. After all, this was just the sort of chaos she wanted to encourage.
She walked along the streets, eying those that called this place home. She could tell the ones that were fearful of what was to come, those that were angry about the turn of events, those that were ready to rebel, and the few that were uncertain. Their whispers and body language told the story their words did not.
It wasn’t long before her wandering lead her directly in the path of the would-be dictator. She had seen this sort of take over before and dictatorship and fear was all that would keep this place in line. He seemed like just the wort to get the job done.
She comes up alongside him, falling into step with him. She does not draw attention to her position. The only thing that gives her away is the flick of her ear towards him and the words that leave her lips, destined for him. “You’ve caused quite the uproar it seems.” Slowly she turns her head to look him fully in the eye. “I’m rather fond of uproar.” She says nothing more, allowing him to take what he wanted from her words. She wasn’t necessarily on anyone’s side, but she would always favor those that were looking to disrupt the natural order of things. He had potential. She would give him that much.
Bexley has never been a pious girl. No more than anything needed to keep her from ostracization. But God is dead and she feels it like a bullet feels the barrel of a gun. And -
A girl told her. In the markets. Yesterday. Or the day before?
Anyway it had been recent. Anyway she hadn’t expected it. Anyway, she had been perfectly fine searching the stalls for scythes, drowning in cinnamon a little worried but not more than normal, given the present climate, and the girl had come up to her, and Bexley could remember thinking she was a little too young to be out on her own but had especially pretty, dark eyes. Not thinking anything of her except that she might also be in want of a weapon. But she had paused, strangely, like she was on the edge of something, a sentence, or a warning, before meeting Bexley’s eyes. Quiet and uncertain as a feather floating through air. And she had said “_____ is dead. Do you know?”
The name did not quite make sense to her. Like the girl had spoken it in a language from a foreign island. Or replaced it with a completely black noise, impossible though that was, a noise that meant nothing but dark and dark and more dark. It was incomprehensible. Even Delphic. She could not even be sure the word that the girl had said was made of letters and not numbers, or glyphs. Bexley heard ______ and could not really process it, even when the girl repeated it, because it both was and wasn’t a name, and was and wasn’t a prayer, and even if she was saying the name Bexley thought she might be saying, it couldn’t possibly be true, because she had just seen him - she had just seen him.
She wouldn’t have even believed it, if not for the next thing the girl said, which was “I’m sorry.”
That she understood.
Bexley had opened her mouth, she remembered it, feeling salt flood her tongue, and her throat close, and did not even know what she could possibly say except that she had to say something, only then she blinked and it was gone, it being everything, all gone, and she was standing somewhere else entirely, in a slightly different variation of the universe, and the girl had disappeared, and the stalls, and the scimitars, and could not remember how she had gotten there, or when, and knew nothing except that God was dead and that the moon was now shining overhead. Starlight poured into the streets. And the Citadel rose up in front of her too tall, like a bird almost taking flight. She had not been here just a second ago, she had been all the way on other side of the city, and would have thought it was a dream except for the way she recognized the scattered film of moonlight webbing the cobblestone.
And it was fall - right? - and she would have been cold, she knew, if she could feel anything at all, but the wind is buffeting the shadow at the end of the street, not her, and the silver is streaming onto the girl far, far away, not her, and she does not feel anything at all, only watches. And watches. Sandstone buildings tower around them. Solterran flags, mottled now by dirt and ash, flutter pathetically in the meek wind. It is utterly silent except for Bexley’s pulse beating against the inside of her head and the soft whoosh of air passing through the open windows of the apartments. And this girl, the foreign body, the utter stranger, wearing her skin and her scar and her necklace, looks at her and disappears around a corner and Bexley wants to follow but she -
Blinks, and here she is. In a night again, though it can’t possibly be the same one. The endless miles of the Mors stretch out around her in peaks and troughs to the edge of the world. The moon has waxed into an improbably fat first quarter.
_____ is dead, she says out loud. The stars sneer overhead. They drape the desert in shadow.
It would not matter so much if she had not been much more pious than expected, if she had not loved him, if they had made any sense together at all - then they could have died happy, if that was a way to die at all - and yet there is not a tombstone in the world engraved DIED HAPPY.
So the scar on her cheek becomes a kind of gift. It pulses, like a heartbeat, against the bone-white skin. And it is so awfully and so his and so awfully real that she feels one of her knees give out (sweet irony!) and nearly crashes to the sand, but something in her, the iron spine, the bird bones, keeps everything upright except the tears that start to spill onto the sand at her feet.
Bexley begins to realize she has never really been angry before.
Not like this. Not like forgetting how to stand. Not like a rage so pure she cannot even feel it, only knows it lingers in her bloodstream because it is the force that propels her forward, not her muscles, not her nerves, not even her consciousness has control of her steps anymore, it is a river-clear stream of anger and despair that sends her slinking across the desert like a cat with those wide, dark eyes and skin buzzing with glitter.
She does not know where he is. If he is even here, or waiting where her feet take her too. But the cats in the empty markets see it, and the little desert lizards, and the carrion birds:
Bexley Briar, repeating like a litany, _____ is dead, ______ is dead.
Morrighan was lost in thought as she came upon the lake. Images of the war back in her homeland flashed through her mind. The swirling vortex of the flames that usually consumed her body was absent and she had never felt so cold.
Perhaps this was a punishment by her own gods, although she had never believed much in them before. That may be the very reason she was stuck here because she had been so consumed in the battle. Well, screw them. They clearly were of no help and it wasn't looking like she would be able to go back any time soon. It seemed the gods here were more tangible beings, so maybe she could get in their good graces.
Her fire. The mare craved it - the warmth, power and overall control. She was more with it. Now she was a mere mortal stuck in this unknown world with its own quarrels and tragedies she wasn't entirely interested in. Though, with the recent disappearance of her court's queen, it was beginning to become her problem. At least, if she wanted to continue having a home it would.
It wasn't something Morrighan would like to admit yet, but she was starting to grow fond of the Night Court. They were not the kingdom she grew up with and fought side by side with, but they were a decent group of equines. She supposed if this was it, it could be a little worse.
At least she had her solitude. As she looked out at the vast expanse of water, she observed each ripple that marked the surface. Life still went on (somehow) and so, she would too. Unlike many, she was resilient, she just had to… figure out how things worked around here. And figure out how to get my magic back… She knew magic existed here, but not quite how to wield it yet. Hopefully the secret could be uncovered soon.
She watches the strange land on the horizon grow closer.
The moon is bright tonight, washing everything in a solemn silver glaze. Too bright. She feels deeply ill at ease docking this night, even though it will be well past midnight when they do. It's too bright, too exposed, but the captain can't be dissuaded and she can't bear to be alone with him longer than she must--he reeks of filth and desperation and quite frankly she doesn't like to be around dirty or desperate people.
She switches her focus from the horizon to stare at the moon; straining, grasping at frayed strands of magic that were once strong and thick as steel cords, as reassuring and steadfast as a one hundred year old oak tree. Of course, nothing happens.
Darkness does not draw across the moon like an elegant black funeral curtain, and she is reminded that what is left her magic is shattered and lost. It will take sheer will and relentlessness to recover what was lost to her.
But she will, make no mistake. As long as it takes her, whatever it takes.
Despite the sour turn of events in her own country (and a two month long bought of sea sickness), she remains very much herself, very much Polyxena, lady of darkness.
She is dismayed, yes, and grieving for her slaughtered sisters (even the ones that had a tendency to stab her in the back at any given opportunity), but dwelling in despair on events she cannot change is almost as pitiful as the drunken sailors on board that sing and pine for lovers long lost.
And honestly, she feels very much like throttling the men that surround her--You'd think a goddamn pirate would know more than two shanties... She's the only woman on board and apparently the only one interested in personal hygiene, but why would she expect anything else from filthy, wayward pirates?
And it is such vessel that carries her to this new world--a dismal, ugly wooden thing that carries beggars, thieves, and no doubt, smuggled goods (such as Polyxena herself). They have given her a wide berth while at sea; her reputation has preceded her.
But there is no reputation that precedes her now, as the ship docks into the blackmarket ports in Solterra. A unit of heavily armored soldiers instantly seize the vessel and all those on board. She hisses softly as they put shackles around her ankles, but otherwise does not resist. Has she escaped one kingdom ruled by a madman only to arrive in another?
She has only her cunning and wit to help her survive here.
P O L Y X E N A oh, I drain your life 'til there's
nothing left but your blood shot eyes
oh, I take my time 'til I show you how I feel inside
A tiger does not belong in the mountains. The thought circles through Neerja's mind like a vulture around a dead snake. She should not be here. She doesn't want to be here, where the trees are dying around her hand the stone is hard and sharp beneath her paws. Each steps she takes makes her wonder why she's still walking through the cool shadows instead of turning home to her heavy, humid jungle heat.
But there is that nagging feeling pulling at her soul and it nips at her like a cub. She dreams of it, that feeling, and it takes on words that dance against her like fronds in a rainstorm. Every night, beneath the moonlight that filters into her jungle, dappled like water ripples, she flies. She's still golden and black but bits of wealth twinkle and sing on her like the song-birds in her forest. The night-sky unfolds beneath her wings and she thinks that this is what she has been missing.
And when she would wake sadness would linger in her shadow like sickness. Each night she would dream and each morning her heart would feel heavier and heavier. The day it started to feel like a stone in her body she left she jungle, following a path that she did not know she knew.
This is how a lion finds herself in the mountains. How foolish was I? I should have stayed in the jungle where the world around me was bright instead gray and cold. All the questions danced her the darkness in the corner of her gaze. Neerja wanted to turn back, she wanted to continue onward until that ache in her heart was nothing but sweetness.
Still, she walked onward until the moon settled to sleep and the sun rose, dewy and still cool over the mountains. Part of her almost wonders why she didn't feel the need to dream and why when this morning came her heart trembled in her chest like a newborn. There is wonder in her to discover that with each step, when the path starts to slope down, the ache in her bones hurts a little less.
Like all great cats she knows she's getting closer and closer to whatever it is that she needs to find.
The air has on a sweetness when she lifts her head to the wind, sweetness and metal and moonlight. It quickens her steps and soon she's running through the trees as if it's a meal she's chasing instead of fate. The trees become nothing more than obscure shadows as she runs. Deer and song-birds pause and watch her, knowing that something dangerous has passed. But they have never seen a tiger and so none of them know enough to turn and run back to their thickets and their nests.
Neerja's stride slows just as the forest starts to thin out and the sunlight stars to filter through bright enough to sting her eyes. Ahead there is a form, all gold and white. There is something heavy in the air around her and when the tiger licks the breeze she finds a name for it. Sorrow and Worry.
Suddenly she knows why she was in the mountains. The jungle seems further and further away, like another life, when she draws out of the shadows and into the sunlight. All she can look at is the pegasus, Moira Her mind doesn't remember recalling the name but her heart does. Oh her heart knows that name in the song that it sings.
It has always known that song.
She waits, as patiently as she can, for the mare to start singing that song back to her.
@Moira, might feel a tugging on her heart as the night starts to die. It could be an ache in her bones, it could feel like something besides just Isra is missing from her life. Whatever it is, she finds herself drawn out to the base of the mountains. There a tiger will walk out the shadows towards her. There is a silent song playing in the air (or is it in her heart) and Moira might wonder where it came from. Has she been dreaming of the tiger too? When she sleeps does she walk through the heavy jungle? Neerja knows why she has come, does Moira?
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