That which has become Erasmus, were it to dream of things beyond the physical space he had been captured, could dream of starfire brimming the orbit of suns – flickering, sparking, if not buzzing in lines, ripples, rings. It could dream of things like golden reflections of daylight, small or not small, glittering like gems in the gaseous twirl of dancing milk-white glow. It knows nothing of fireflies or faeries, or even horses for that matter. But it learns. As if in infancy unraveling the consumption of every moment, each thing derailed by wonder and blooming epiphany. It knows nothing of his legs as they catch their gait over the swirling grasses that brush across his knees, nothing about his nose as he blinks away the orange-red-gold of fluttering leaves when they meet it. But it learns.
And when it touches the mind that once was, there are few terrible things that greet its pursuit of delicate yellow things that glow and glimmer, dancing across the line of shadows. So it follows, ginger-stepping the twigs that threaten to snap reality in half. When the thing before him bursts into a tangle of silent discourse, threading gracefully through the firelight of its autumnal backdrop, Erasmus mimics the action. He does not look back to see the faerie-light, tenderly rolling beneath the sycamore-leaves, waiting patiently for what comes next. The legs he has yet to understand barrel beneath him as if they remember the cutting wind across their fetlocks, the heat and labor drawn abreast with breathless abandon, thundering madly over ground. It does not know them but permits, for its stolen eyes remember such predatory things with gnashing fangs and sharpened claws, or the acid clouds that prowl glassine fields of granite wash, or the shadow of the moon as it carves a hole in its mother planet.
It remembers what it is to race and rally, tearing the ground underfoot so that it may never be again, that he may never be again, but unwhole and made whole by adrenaline alone. His body wakes like stirred embers in the night – and oh how it feels like a cage still, rattling and rustling and full of rage. But it drives on, on, and his eyes forget how the Erasmus-That-Was may have looked back to that wavering ball of moonlight, may have admired it for its softness and thought of all the ways in which it reminded him of desolate, silent nights in the greater fields. It forgets the timidity of a boy, the tenderness of childish memories, and all the warnings of ever tearing into deep, dark forests. It sees only the silhouette of the firefly stallion as it breaks to pieces like golden ichor, and Erasmus, the thing that is, remembers all the ways in which it is a hunter.
He snaps at a firefly as it buzzes past his face – all harsh lines, all sharpened and focused in the glow of the firelight dance – and sees that others that hit the ground as droplets sprung from them anew; he is joined by others, their semblance no more than shifting shadows and ambiguous shapes. They are whispering, howling, screaming, a torrent of spirited things that leap and bound through the mystical lure of autumn colors shifting short behind.
And before he realizes what they are, they break the towers of trees that loom between them and stand before him like temple statues, or watchful gargoyles.
But at its center, when his eyes have scraped across every mist-face and mist-hoof that stamps lightly in place, the fireflies dance in the shape of something smaller, something child-like. Erasmus-That-Is tenderly toes the psyche of What-Was, and treads memories of children, of sad things, of bruised things, of awful things. Of broken ribs and shattered teeth, those lungs and those mouths forming over and over the prayers of aching boys lost to war.
The vagaries are speaking, but It knows not what they speak of – they are voices lost to him, whispers dreamt of another dream, hymns caught on the arid breeze of a ruined wasteland. Aether crawls in his bones, in his flesh creeping, like vines and their thorns shifting warily through the dark. It remembers the words, but only faintly. Things the Erasmus-tongue always gestured but never knew the taste of. When his eyes crawl back to the child, it does not recognize the thing, but it wants to. It looks to him with expectancy, with marvel, and something else.
“Follow,” it chuckles, and takes to a winding circled leap. “Come,” it pleads.
If there had been anything left of the Erasmus-That-Was, perhaps it would have known the face of that foal, and the noise that hummed around him like a song. He might have turned and run, and run, and run, until the path unwound itself before him and that jeering moonlight bobbed happily, continuing his journey. But nothing answers from the void, from the tunneling spiral of memories that plummet when called for, and when the Aether reaches for the child it bounds away once more.
It follows, as something in it stirs again like hunger and rage.
And when it touches the mind that once was, there are few terrible things that greet its pursuit of delicate yellow things that glow and glimmer, dancing across the line of shadows. So it follows, ginger-stepping the twigs that threaten to snap reality in half. When the thing before him bursts into a tangle of silent discourse, threading gracefully through the firelight of its autumnal backdrop, Erasmus mimics the action. He does not look back to see the faerie-light, tenderly rolling beneath the sycamore-leaves, waiting patiently for what comes next. The legs he has yet to understand barrel beneath him as if they remember the cutting wind across their fetlocks, the heat and labor drawn abreast with breathless abandon, thundering madly over ground. It does not know them but permits, for its stolen eyes remember such predatory things with gnashing fangs and sharpened claws, or the acid clouds that prowl glassine fields of granite wash, or the shadow of the moon as it carves a hole in its mother planet.
It remembers what it is to race and rally, tearing the ground underfoot so that it may never be again, that he may never be again, but unwhole and made whole by adrenaline alone. His body wakes like stirred embers in the night – and oh how it feels like a cage still, rattling and rustling and full of rage. But it drives on, on, and his eyes forget how the Erasmus-That-Was may have looked back to that wavering ball of moonlight, may have admired it for its softness and thought of all the ways in which it reminded him of desolate, silent nights in the greater fields. It forgets the timidity of a boy, the tenderness of childish memories, and all the warnings of ever tearing into deep, dark forests. It sees only the silhouette of the firefly stallion as it breaks to pieces like golden ichor, and Erasmus, the thing that is, remembers all the ways in which it is a hunter.
He snaps at a firefly as it buzzes past his face – all harsh lines, all sharpened and focused in the glow of the firelight dance – and sees that others that hit the ground as droplets sprung from them anew; he is joined by others, their semblance no more than shifting shadows and ambiguous shapes. They are whispering, howling, screaming, a torrent of spirited things that leap and bound through the mystical lure of autumn colors shifting short behind.
And before he realizes what they are, they break the towers of trees that loom between them and stand before him like temple statues, or watchful gargoyles.
But at its center, when his eyes have scraped across every mist-face and mist-hoof that stamps lightly in place, the fireflies dance in the shape of something smaller, something child-like. Erasmus-That-Is tenderly toes the psyche of What-Was, and treads memories of children, of sad things, of bruised things, of awful things. Of broken ribs and shattered teeth, those lungs and those mouths forming over and over the prayers of aching boys lost to war.
The vagaries are speaking, but It knows not what they speak of – they are voices lost to him, whispers dreamt of another dream, hymns caught on the arid breeze of a ruined wasteland. Aether crawls in his bones, in his flesh creeping, like vines and their thorns shifting warily through the dark. It remembers the words, but only faintly. Things the Erasmus-tongue always gestured but never knew the taste of. When his eyes crawl back to the child, it does not recognize the thing, but it wants to. It looks to him with expectancy, with marvel, and something else.
“Follow,” it chuckles, and takes to a winding circled leap. “Come,” it pleads.
If there had been anything left of the Erasmus-That-Was, perhaps it would have known the face of that foal, and the noise that hummed around him like a song. He might have turned and run, and run, and run, until the path unwound itself before him and that jeering moonlight bobbed happily, continuing his journey. But nothing answers from the void, from the tunneling spiral of memories that plummet when called for, and when the Aether reaches for the child it bounds away once more.
It follows, as something in it stirs again like hunger and rage.
@Official Dawn Account - Erasmus chooses to play with the mist-spirits.
