ravel weary limbs carried my heavy frame further, damp sand clinging to my pasterns while the rest of my tri-colored body stained a darker color from the merciless kiss of the ocean. It was here, on a beach that I had finally found the "x" marked on my map. It was here that I had heard strangers whisper of in passing on my travels. People whispered of the magic that ran through the veins of the lands and I could feel the power pulsating through the sand like lightening through the sky. Excitement sparked in the synapsis of my nerve endings, sending a little bit of a spark into my steps. All of this traveling would soon be worth it, if these lands were really as wonderful as others made it out to be. Otherwise, I would be back on my way.
Large heavily feathered appendages stretched out, slowly, from my two toned sides as my limbs ceased their forward movement and I looked out over the ocean. A grunt slid from my mouth as the tension in my shoulders dissipated with the extension and then contraction of my deltoids. There was a fine mist falling from the pale grey clouds that clung to the sky overhead, mixing in with the ocean breeze, washing away the smell of salted fish that the ocean normally carried. Many seemed to think that the beach was a romantic place, somewhere to bring a naïve female to woo her off of her feet and back into whatever position so desired. But, I found it to be more of a nuisance if that wasn't the goal.
Today, it was almost bearable. At least the smell was gone, but I could already feel the grains of sand digging through my coat into my abdomen and all along my limbs. My thick mane and tail felt ten times heavier with the sand and water that clung to the strands like a nursling to it's mother. If this was what Novus had to offer, I was already less than pleased and had a tiny flicker of longing to find one of the strangers who talked so highly of these parts...just so I could remove their trachea and lies would no longer be able to be spoken. Dark ears flicked about as hazel eyes moved off of the line of waves and floated down the coast line, I wouldn't leave just yet..
Maybe there would be something here to make up for the terrible entrance. "speech"
code by ralli | @Liatris | woo this sucks, but i'll get better (416)
leary eyes slowly pried heavy lids apart, the sharp crust of an uninvited sleep poked at the raw and sticky flesh that surrounded them. Pain was the first sensation to register, its raking tendrils slashing across his face with little mercy as the young mule began to regain his consciousness. A strained groan escaped his dry lips as he stirred against the cooling grass. The earth beneath him felt wonderful against his ragged form, its enticing dampness attempting to lull him back into the blackness of the back of his skull. As tempting as the offer was, the dappled equine refused, feeling it urgent to come to his senses.
Time felt… Strange to the injured mule. He couldn't remember how long he had been out for. Trying to think about it made his mind screech loudly in protest, the poor colt wincing at the throb that spiked his head. He'd have to revisit that. Instead, he set his foremost focus upon rising to his hooves. Shakily, he began to push off of the grassy floor. His legs buckled beneath him, rapidly reuniting him with the ground and knocking what air he clung to out of his sore lungs. The force stirred up a fit of coughs, ash clawing up his throat and coating his tongue as a silent reminder of what could have caused his current state.
Was there a fire?
Is there a fire?!
The instinctual fear jolted the mule to his hooves instantly, the sudden rush of blood surging upwards causing him to grow dizzy from the effort. Quickly shaking his head free of the haze, the teak colt spun around in search of the orange beast. His muffled gaze fell upon a line of bright light slicing across the horizon, the pink sun watching over the blaze through the thick plumes of black that grew from the sparks beneath it. Pretty, if it weren't inherently horrifying. However, judging the distance he found himself at now, he could only assume he escaped the worst of it. Relief dripped from his face, or rather blood did.
That was definitely blood.
A shocked bray rushed out of the mule as he bucked around in a panicked circle. Adrenaline bristled down his mane, and he felt the need to run. Not even two steps into his gait, however, he found himself kissing the grass once more, hooves flying over his head as the world spiraled around him. He slid to a halt, unearthing roots and fresh soil as he did. Another defeated moan of pain crept out of his throat. What on earth tripped him up? Eyes rolling about his head freely, the colt slowly turned his head to look behind him. Once his pupils focused, his vision fell upon a journal, one now sat up and splayed in the commotion.
Huh?
Temporarily setting aside his initial panic in wake of curiosity, the mule grabbed a hold of the hard covered book, dragging it towards himself with a weak power about him. He let the journal float before him, twirling it around in his grasp and flipping through the pages. Pieces of it fell to the floor, diagrams of various plants scattering about at his hooves. These images seemed… Vaguely familiar to him. Flickers of memories sparked through his mind, each synapses setting his mind on fire as he tried to remember anything. Nope. Wasn't coming to him today. The curious mule turned to face the front cover finally, his covered eyes widening at the sight on it.
A name, etched in gold stared back at him with a burning intensity.
Nicodemus.
The name rang out in his mind like an alarm bell, chiming throughout the space and awakening memories once more. He heard the name called to him in a voice he knew wasn't his own. He saw fire, everything danced in flames as he fled deep into the forest, leaving the figure and the fire behind him.
Nicodemus
He was Nicodemus.
Nicodemus hummed quietly after a few moments, affirming that he was Nicodemus, this was his journal, and he had a surprisingly vast knowledge of medicinal herbs according to the notes scribbled within the pages he held before himself. Helpful, all things considered as he watched droplets of blood splash against the aged paper that had settled in the grass below. Quickly he scooped up the pages between his teeth and stuffed them back into the confines of the book, worried that his mussed face would ruin any more of the torn pages.
Now equipped with some knowledge of the world he found himself in, Nicodemus held the book tightly to his bruised chest. He had to push forward now. Where he would end up, he wasn't quite sure yet, but he'd find out once he got there. Taking the first steps to his new and mysterious life, Nicodemus trudged deeper into the woods that surrounded him.
What he didn't catch, however, was the glow of red that emanated from within the pages of the leather journal. A spark of life to some degree. A stirring of the bowels within those inscriptions that he'd soon discover...
“It’ll be fine, Jasmine, really! Just come on. I’ve heard there’s a castle, and shops full of jewels and riches without anyone watching them. You’ll find some beautiful jewelry, I’m sure of it. Just...don’t look down.”
Mesnyi huffed. She had looked down, and what she saw beneath the bridge nearly made her vomit right there. Perhaps the only thing keeping her from doing so was the presence of a handsome - if not a bit eccentric - nobleman, who had absolutely insisted on taking her to the island. It had, of course, changed since their agreement, and Mesnyi was now hoping that the whole of it was much lovelier than the bridge. And whatever was below the bridge. She was not looking again.
The young stallion leaned into her - an altogether alarming gesture when one was on a bridge - and insisted that she look into his eyes (really?) and he would lead the way. He was, certainly, much nicer to look at, though she allowed herself a glance now and then at the gemstones glittering around them. Even if she knew that they were really vertebrae. They soon arrived at the city, which altogether was both awe- and fear-inducing, but Mesnyi had little say in it now; she wasn’t about to head back across the bridge and, since she had made this terrifying journey, she might as well go looking for that jewelry.
Her suitor - a tall, ash-gray boy called Gregory - led her through the winding streets. She took the time to memorize landmarks (though she did not expect them to change), as she was certain he had not. A signpost here, a statue there - if any strange beasts reared out of the mica-lit corners, she would know how to get away. With or without him.
“Jasmine, look here!” She’d fallen behind a few steps while she scrutinized a sculpture of a...something. She wasn’t really sure what it was. Mesnyi trotted up to the boy, who stood looking into the window of a shop lit only by a white flame that sat atop a pedestal in its center, encased by wires. In she followed Gregory - who was entirely focused on the light (though perhaps it was a star?) which, Mesnyi found, reflected off of a multitude of crystalline shapes. Many were simply loose amongst the shelves, though some were pressed into the walls or even a canvas depicting - again, she wasn’t quite sure, a landscape, perhaps? The temptation to shovel everything into Gregory’s satchel was not nearly so strong as the feeling that a foul beast might arise from the star to defend its hoard, or that it would all turn to dust on reaching the other side of the bridge. "Gregory…” She started, gaze traveling the room before settling on a flower made entirely of glass. “Be a dear and get that for me.” He reached eagerly for the sculpture - too eagerly, considering its make - and fumbled, his satchel’s leather strap catching against the display’s decorative hook and tugging. The flower, despite his mind’s best efforts, fell to the ground and exploded into a fine dust. It did not shatter. It simply - became powder. The floor beneath them rumbled, and within moments, a section of the wall slid away into an entrance. Within, a hallway lit by more white flames extended beyond mortal sight.
“Jasmine, I’m so sorry-”
“Be quiet,” she snapped. “We’re going in there.”
“I don’t think- I mean-”
“Is this more frightening than the bridge?”
Gregory swallowed. “Well it’s just that - this powder got on me and it’s kind of...itchy…” He rubbed at his leg with his nose, and immediately threw his head back and sneezed violently. “I’m not sure-” he sneezed again - “it kind of hurts now -” and again - “maybe we shouldn’t-”
She was inclined to agree with him, of course, as she certainly did not wish to go near the pile of sneeze-dust, but his nose was beginning to turn slick and pink as the flower’s petals, and - she looked down - so were his legs. Mesnyi backed away, and as she did so, his body kept turning, and soon enough he could not even speak to ask her what was wrong; a few seconds more and he was entirely pink glass.
So many falter at the bridge. They look down. I look down, too. Is it the ribs that disturb them, or the flesh? The dying muscle, the remnants of organs and once-life? Maybe it’s gross. It’s definitely gross. Rot is not the same as just-killed, still-pumping blood in the body dead. It’s too dead. Way too dead. I think the gemstones were a nice touch, anyway.
I cross the bridge. Some others do, too, now and then, but I reckon it’s not as many as usual. I haven’t been to the island before, myself - I’ve heard of lots of beautiful things coming and going with the seasons, but business has been too good for me to make it out here. I asked the Sleepmother for some awake-time and headed out here before anyone had the chance to tell me what it was like.
I’m not disappointed.
There is a great sparkling city, and a castle in the distance. I didn’t read many story-books as a child (I couldn’t read), but this feels rather fantastical (maybe not to those who didn't cross the bridge, maybe not to those who ever read a knightly tale). Every corner is dark and looming, a ghost-wind howling through the empty shops, between what living bodies wander the streets. I don’t talk to anyone - I don’t need to. Or want to. In a window I see a sculpture - I think - of a horse, falling, pressed up against the glass as if violently thrown against it. One of her wings is crushed beneath her body, bloody bones splintering up between the feathers, and the other flails helplessly, eternally paused, above her. Her expression is twisted into a scream. I wonder what knocked her from the sky.
I enter the shop, and in it there seems to be nothing - until I follow the pegasi’s gaze to the opposite wall, where black stone pulses with orange crystal. It takes up the entire corner, stretching to the cathedral-high ceiling; a vast shadow, and several appendages - or something like them, I am hesitant to say that any part of it resembles a living thing - reach out across the other walls. It has no eyes, no mouth. It might as well be an ore deposit, but obviously - obviously - it is a monster. The kind you see when you snuff the candle and your eyes find only melting shadows in the sudden darkness.
It's always a matter, isn't it, of waiting for the world to come unraveled? When things hold together, it's always only temporary
T
here is another version of the story, one where Snow White knew exactly what she was doing when she bit into the apple—and she did it anyway.
This is the story Elena lives, taken that poison, like that poisonous love that had burned like acid in her veins and eaten holes in her heart. It had felt like an easy love at first, like there had been nothing to question, all instinct and impulse and meant to be’s. But she never realized that the moment she had taken that first bite, she had fallen asleep.
Maybe now, she is just waking up.
And it is all pain and agony and sorrow, but she cannot close her eyes, no matter how hard she tries, that slumber she once loved no longer comes to her. It is as elusive as smoke after the fire has burnt itself out.
She does not know why she’s here.
To be fair, on most days Elena does not why she is where she ends up. Her days remain disconnected and sporadic, and she is left walking the line of anger and rage and utter sorrow. She feels it in her bones—the loss, the confusion—and it scrapes her clean, leaves her empty and wanting.
“I’ll never let anything happen to you. I promise.” She had just told her daughter this morning. And now she stands at a bridge made of bones and Elena wonders how difficult that promise would be to keep if she is no longer there to hold it.
—
« if you must die, sweetheart,
die knowing your life was my life’s best part »
B
y this time I was no stranger to heartbreak. Every waking moment Grief and I played a dangerous game, a constant push and pull, a give and take of woe and anguish that flowed into me like a river. For months I served cruel masters with the taste of freedom a fleeting flavor upon my parched tongue, a sweet memory forever out of my grasp. I knew cruelty and abuse and loss. Oh, but by Solis’ wretched light I knew loss, and I knew intimately the agony that came with surviving it.
Death was unjust, but Life could be far more torturous and cruel than her macabre counterpart.
Something pulled me from my sickbed early that spring morning. I crossed the dusty streets of Solterra like a ghost in dawn’s early light, feeling for the life of me like a tourist in a dream. A heavy cloak rested around my shoulders, hiding my malnourished and wretched body from curious eyes and doing wonders to ward off the morning chill, but not even it’s wool warmth could thaw the chill that so mercilessly grasped my heart.
Honestly, I didn’t know what I had expected. After all this time I had no idea why I had gotten my hopes up, allowing myself to feel some semblance of paltry optimism. I stood akin to a feeble statue in front of a barren, empty cottage, its windows boarded and door nailed shut with scraps of driftwood from the summer monsoons. The white walls of my family cottage were dirty and unkempt and it was empty, so empty, forgotten and cast aside, the sole blemish to the otherwise pristine Ieshan property.
Staring at it now through wide eyes, my lips parted as I stood quivering in front of my home, I felt something inside of me shudder and snap. My lungs seemed to shrink. I couldn’t breathe. My insides twisted and churned. Tears burned hot in my eyes and suddenly I was moving, lurching forward on thin legs like an unsteady drunkard, summoning my weak magic to pull and tear at the wood barring me entry from my cottage.
“You will not!” I cursed vehemently at my sudden adversary, dual-colored eyes wild and rolling as I pulled with all of my sickly might, desperate to rid these oppressive wooden chains from my home. This was my home! It was mine and I would have it back! The gifted magic of this world was far too weak and the boards held firm, so I latched onto the wood with my teeth and pulled hard. One board came free with a squeal of metal on wood and I tossed it unceremoniously to the ground, surely looking mad and rabid.
Who knows? Perhaps I was.
I didn’t care.
Like a mongrel tugging on a bone I grabbed each plank of wood and pulled hard. I cared not for the splinters that dug into my lips or my tongue, the pain depressingly familiar. If anything it invigorated me, spurring my desire to reclaim the only thing that had ever truly been mine. This place had once been my life and I was desperate to reclaim it, hoping that by some twisted miracle should I reclaim this home, I could reclaim some semblance of the man I used to be.
A depressing joke, truly. Life would never be so kind to me.
It was a miracle in itself that a guard on patrol or a soldier passing by didn’t overhear my madness and come to arrest me. Between my heaving and grunting and general mad whisper-yelling at inanimate objects, the sound of wood cracking and hitting the ground in an disorderly pile, or the general ruckus I was making in this early morning silence, it would only be a matter of time until someone came looking. Again, however, I didn’t care. I had one goal, and right now that goal was ripping away every presented blockade from my life.
If you must die, Sweetheart,
Die knowing your life was my life’s best part.
One, two, three, four…
Repetitive, I counted. My only driving force, my only state of progression. Every dragging step, every lurch of an exhausted heartbeat, every gasping inhale followed by shuddering exhale, I counted. A litany of prayer reduced to four single digits, the promise of salvation and a stubborn, foolish determination to not keel over in the dunes of the Mors personified into four simple numbers. One, two… Three. Four.
I lost track of the time since the night of my dangerous escape. It seemed to blur together, and I could not remember just how long I had been traveling, dragging my sorry state of a body through Novus to return home. The first few days were spent in a frantic blur; paranoia and terror drove my mad dash across the lands. As fatigue caught up with me two days in, I chose to spend the days in hiding to try and rest and regain my strength, while my nights were dedicated to travel.
Home. Did I have a home? Would it still be mine to claim? Or had I been replaced? One.
I thought of my family cottage on the corner of the Ieshan estate, beyond the beautiful gardens where so often I met Adonai. I imagined it as it was; beautiful, quaint, it’s stone sides polished a striking white and the gardens around it blooming and full. The thought of my bed, so soft and welcoming when I could fall into it, was nearly enough to make me weep. Two.
My thoughts twisted, sullied and poisoned from the hardship of my absence and the mental image of my quaint cottage shifted into an image of neglect, forgotten, rotting, cast aside. The windows that remained open to allow the winter breeze inside were now boarded and sealed shut, the same done to the front entranceway to prevent entrance. I imagined it barren and full of cobwebs, and the only souls that lived there were the ghosts of memories. Three.
I wanted to cry, but I ran out of tears weeks ago. Four.
Crossing the Mors had been the most difficult part of my journey thus far. By the time I even arrived in Solterra my body was pushing the fine line of collapsing. The nights were cold and frigid, my legs seeming to sink into the fine sand dunes that made every step a challenge. I was exhausted by the time dawn rose and with so little protection from the glaring sun, my rest was fitful at best. Two days into the trek across the desert I noticed a number of dark carrion birds in my wake, circling overhead. Three of them, to be exact, and I recalled a moment months ago where I saw three black birds on Adonai’s windowsill before our lives were turned upside down.
My tired heart ached. My eyes burned. I could hardly breathe, the tongue in my mouth dry and parched, nostrils cracked and bleeding. Surely I looked a wretched sight, and had I possessed the energy I would have been horrified at my appearance. Every youthful splendor and ounce of vigor I once had was gone; my coat dull and lackluster, the grey-blue color stained with sweat and caked with sand, dirt, and blood. Every rib could be counted and the cut of my hip bones sharply stuck out. Old injuries, cuts, and lacerations were poorly healed and some had grown infected along the journey I made across Novus. I was a sight, and not in a good way. Surely not even Adonai could recognize me now…
It wasn’t until I stumbled across the Oasis just before dawn that I allowed myself to fall, its greenery like a welcome home embrace from a loved one. Unceremoniously I crumpled to the ground near the shore of the blue waters, the sound of the nearby waterfall like music to my ears as my sides heaved in large, gasping breaths. For what felt like hours I laid there, eyes closed, focused on breathing and not passing out. It was a miracle I managed to stay conscious. As my thirst kicked in, I shifted, rolling onto my middle after an embarrassing amount of effort. My hooves scrambled against sand and stone to pull my pitiful bulk the rest of the way towards the water and there I drank greedily, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of crisp, clear, cool water. Every swallow caused my stomach to cramp uncomfortably, but my eyes burned with tears of relief.
Finally.
I was home.
Lacking the strength to move from the side of the oasis I let my head drop in the sand, chest heaving as I struggled to catch my breath. Exhaustion covered me like a mantle, oppressive and cumbersome, and my eyes grew heavy.
As unconsciousness finally took me I didn’t even see the three dark carrion birds perched upon the nearby stonework.
There is a river running through the heart of the city in currents of silver and gold. Horses pause in their explorations and conquerings to slake their belly-of-the-island thirst. They drink, and drink, and drink, until their lips are dripping silver instead of mortal language. They smile and all their teeth turn to stars caught in the black cosmic gravity of their lips.
Danaë knows the river is not water. No water is so silver, so metallic, so shining in the blinking eyes and the sun. Only blood can be the color of light. Only the blood of dead stars is so bright.
Or maybe the blood of gods.
And she is thirsty, so thirsty that her throat feels like the desert her father has told her stories of. She is as parched as her mother for it, as starved as Eligos in the middle of winter, as ravenous as her sister. Her mouth waters like a fox as she watches the mortals smile their star-blood smiles and laugh until star-blood spit is falling from their lips like sorrow.
She wants to join them, to spit her sorrow and her stardust and laugh as she drinks down death.
Instead she pauses at the crying shop with walls that weep that same silver-blood and tremble in a cacophony of agony that her horn sings right back in lines of wood slivers running in lines straighter than the horizon. She digs, and digs, and digs, with both her blades until the floor is flooded up to her ankles with silver-blood that anyone else but her might call tears, or water, or rain in the belly of the island.
Danaë knows better.
Somewhere she can hear the snarl of Eligos and the screech of the beginning of her mother's war. Somewhere her sister is carving out her own agony, her own war, her own thirst in the city. Somewhere horses are laughing with their mouths full of blood.
And Danaë, who still knows better, keeps trying to carve out the sorrow of the sobbing and weeping shop. Even when the sorrow rises up to her knees---
She does not stop.
"I can feel it mounting; a dark wave - upon the night of my soul”
It's not unlike Malik to wake up in a daze and have nearly no memory of the night before. Sometimes there are fragments that come back to him, but this time, all he can remember is that the drinks just kept coming. It had been hard to say no.
He rises from his bed and wakes up the woman next to him. It's clear they had slept together, but there is no memory of just how good (or how bad) the night had been. Either way, he gestures for her to leave and she seems disappointed, but Malik never sleeps with someone twice or lets them stay. Plus, now that he looks at her, she's kind of ugly and it would be a bit embarrassing to have to go out walking in public with her.
It takes some time, but he manages to stumble out into the Court streets. The sun beats down and makes his headache worse, but he knows one of the merchants sells a cure in the form of a potion. He's in the middle of buying it when he sees one of the Ieshans out of the corner of his eye. Malik doesn't remember her name, but he's fairly certain she's part of the noble family. Unlike whatever he had brought in last night, she's actually hot. Quickly, he takes the potion like a shot and walks over to the woman. He puffs out his chest to appear more together than he actually feels.
"Why hello there, beautiful," he says with a smile and leans in closer to her. "What brings you out on this fine day?"
Thana does not see a city. She does not see the shops, and the wonders, and the barnacles twisting themselves into a mockery of space. Her gaze does not linger on the crying walls or the screaming ones (although the sounds of them live in her chest like a tumor nested into the chambers of her heart).
The eyes in the wall, the apex of the rib-cage bridge, the wind no one else can feel but that she can see, all catch in her gaze like flies in a corpse. And Thana welcomes them in with a slack jaw and blood that coagulates instead of races.
Come closer, each whistle of that not-wind in her horn says. Come in, her teeth say as they grind against each other like whetstones and blades. And she does not blink, does not falter, does not pause, as she runs through the noose city like an arrow to the throat of it.
Eligos runs with her, shoulder to shoulder, and his body says nothing--- nothing at all. Death never does.
She feels that same nothing as the gemstones eyes in the door follow the shadow of their death when she passes through. The carpet withers like a forest laid flat at her hooves-- red, to brown, to black, to dust gathering in the mortar. Rooms gather their secrets close, like hens their eggs, as she passes by the chambers of them. The walls grow thick and fat with mold, and moss, and larva while she moves through the stone veins of the castles.
And if the palace is screaming a lament she does not hear it above the thump, thump, thump of a monster’s heart calling her to war.
Her own thump, thump, thumps back an answer. Yes, it bellows, yes.
The throne rises up before them as does the false-god with their throne of bones and their crown of trees. Thana smiles at their opalescent gaze in their opalescent brow-- one that does not compare to the incandescent and implacable wrath in her own. There is a mouth full of teeth in her look and nothing of kindness, or caution, or anything but a poem that she promises to carve into the legs sprouting from a false-god’s chest.
Outside the not-sun dies and the eyes blink.
Inside, in the cage of molded walls, Thana drags her horn against the throne-room archway.
