When the comet tightens its noose around his neck, he only stares at her. Because the dreamer is the only way through this. Because he doesn’t want to die another dream-death. He doesn’t want to return to the yoke on his neck, the heat, the smell of sweat. He isn’t ready to leave.
He wants to stay here, wherever they are, wherever they might go, for as long as he can. The dreaming was always better than its opposite.
So he stares at her, the calm serious in his eyes asking-- careful not to beg-- mercy and magic,
mercy and magic,
… And from the vacuous darkness between stars, there is form and color and sound. Atmosphere blooms around him, fills his lungs with blue. He can see now how the forests sway far below at the crook of her hocks, and the cresting of alien waves on an alien shore.
When she sings-- when she sings the universe responds. Dune begins to change. His wings spread longer and longer, and his claws lengthen, and from his shoulders burst two dark brown legs, almost black.
All the while his mind is caught on a memory, or something he thinks is a memory. His mother, humming. Backlit by the sun so he can’t see her face, but he can just place the outline of a tired smile. It was probably made up. A false memory, spun up by an orphan with time to kill, wondering what his mother’s voice sounded like.
It wouldn’t sound like this. Like war drums, like breaking bones. Like the swirling heart of the universe. Oblivion, in song.
Her wings brush against his. He remembers how earlier they brushed against the oasis floor, cutting a line in the sand. what side are you on. But her feathers against him only feel like feathers. Not a blade. Not a finality. It might be the softest part of each of them. And then with a grin the stallion touches ground with four hooves. He liked these wings. He was keeping them.
He does not stay grounded for long. With a soft grunt he swings his legs into a buck. Clouds scatter at his heels. The itch to move, once scratched, only grows, and with a bouncy lope he careens toward her endless horizon. Testing the bounds of his cosmic leash. A few lengths ahead of the dreamer, with a soft snort, he glances back to see if she would follow. Something like a dare in the jut of his chin. He was not sure how far he could get by himself.
He wants to stay here, wherever they are, wherever they might go, for as long as he can. The dreaming was always better than its opposite.
So he stares at her, the calm serious in his eyes asking-- careful not to beg-- mercy and magic,
mercy and magic,
… And from the vacuous darkness between stars, there is form and color and sound. Atmosphere blooms around him, fills his lungs with blue. He can see now how the forests sway far below at the crook of her hocks, and the cresting of alien waves on an alien shore.
When she sings-- when she sings the universe responds. Dune begins to change. His wings spread longer and longer, and his claws lengthen, and from his shoulders burst two dark brown legs, almost black.
All the while his mind is caught on a memory, or something he thinks is a memory. His mother, humming. Backlit by the sun so he can’t see her face, but he can just place the outline of a tired smile. It was probably made up. A false memory, spun up by an orphan with time to kill, wondering what his mother’s voice sounded like.
It wouldn’t sound like this. Like war drums, like breaking bones. Like the swirling heart of the universe. Oblivion, in song.
Her wings brush against his. He remembers how earlier they brushed against the oasis floor, cutting a line in the sand. what side are you on. But her feathers against him only feel like feathers. Not a blade. Not a finality. It might be the softest part of each of them. And then with a grin the stallion touches ground with four hooves. He liked these wings. He was keeping them.
He does not stay grounded for long. With a soft grunt he swings his legs into a buck. Clouds scatter at his heels. The itch to move, once scratched, only grows, and with a bouncy lope he careens toward her endless horizon. Testing the bounds of his cosmic leash. A few lengths ahead of the dreamer, with a soft snort, he glances back to see if she would follow. Something like a dare in the jut of his chin. He was not sure how far he could get by himself.
@Warset he's such a nerd
