perhaps we're not afraid of death,
but our names plucked from the air.
The dark, gnarled innards of the forest were terrifying. Terrifying in a primordial, haunting way which which Pravda was intimately familiar. In a strange way, the fear brought him an accompanying peace. Pravda could accept, in the oppressive darkness, his own mortality. Pravda could accept his vulnerability. There were creatures out there that he knew nothing of, and the aching heartbeat of the island felt like a dull thrum beneath his hooves. It begged his curiosity. But… perhaps that was illy thought. It did not beg. It demanded; and in comparison, Pravda’s will was weak.
Pravda could not help, but wander. He felt at any moment he might stumble across Prigovora, as though it were his creatures will that had produced the magic of the island. Of course, Pravda did not. It did not matter, however. It continued to search—for what, he did not know—with an aching in his heart that felt like tears at the precipice, just waiting to spill.
In his mind, there was a beach. It was a long beach, a white beach, draped erratically by the large palms of tropical trees. He could almost smell it… and the water, deep cyan, glimmered and throbbed. There was a horse running, alone. She was the gold of the sun.
Before him now, all gold was gone. The forest only deepened as he progressed, ducking his head under branches, shouldering through brambles. Jewel-bright birds followed him, eerily quiet, and he cast his own jewel-bright eyes upon them now and again. They would scatter, then, and ascend to the reaches of the forest he could not ascend. Pravda’s body betrayed his fear in a way his mind did not. His limbs trembled now and again; each sharp snap in the near distance caused him to tense, and swivel his ears. Each time he reacted so, Pravda mentally chastised himself against his fears. This is the very thing the Priests taught you, he would remind himself. You were told, so long ago, that nature is the very essence of true justice…
As if in agreement, the forest began to smell of blood. Perhaps it had smelled that way all along, and Pravda had merely been distracted. The metallic odour was now strong in his flaring nostrils. The whites of his eyes showed and the stallion’s heart began to beat frantically in his chest. For no reason, Pravda thought in exasperation.
Unbeknownst to him, another equine sought to escape the scent. Unbeknownst to him, the fear he felt was reflected in another. But Pravda refused to allow his body’s instinctual responses to get the best of him; no. Begrudgingly, forcefully, he began to push toward the cloying odour of death. How many times, long ago, had he smelled the same thing? The deeper he trekked, the more malevolent the forest became. Pravda thought it was Prigovora’s soul, manifested. It was the primordial, the ecstatic dawn of life, that gaped at him through the heavy darkness. His body struggled to breath. But his mind soured with the familiarity, the intriguing pull of terror and… and, did he feel guilt?
If sin were a colour, were a shape, it would be twisting trees. Malicious, shaped like clawed hands, twitching in the stagnant air. It would be the dusky darkness that manifested beneath their boughs, as though no sky existed, anywhere, and this time was the only time in history. There was no before, no after, and if Pravda were to ever write of a World it would be the one he existed ephemerally in that very moment. It would be a world risen up from a cracked sea, with jewel-birds and gleaming, metallic wildcats. It would be a forest that yawned, and gaped, and threatened to devour him whole—
The intimacy he experienced, the sheer weight of pure solitude, broke abruptly. The scent of blood had become strong now, stronger than it had been before—and he shouldered through a low-hanging bough. Pravda saw her then, Fia the Crownless, the Outcasted Queen. He did not know who he saw, only that they were brought together by the forest’s call, by the smell of blood, by the magics or the fates of the World he inhabited.
Pravda had never been one to challenge such things. He cleared his throat, quietly, drawing her attention. Then he stepped forward, nondescript, ordinary. “You look like you could use a companion,” his voice cracked the silence. His smile offered warmth against the chilling apathy of the island’s heart.
And his eyes were drawn toward the mangled corpse, and in his mind he saw—
A creature in the sand. A creature with gleaming-black scales, feasting upon the corpse of a horse. She was gold.
His heart still beat quickly. He asked, aloud, “Have you been here long? I’m Pravda."
@Pravda "speaks"
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