It follows, it follows. It remembers and forgets hunger like the shuddering of mothwings flitting heavily over the ghost-heads; leaping between, beside, through - they are a congregation of humming resonance and mist. The thing that is Erasmus does not know ghosts, so it does not tap into the deep psyche that would have relayed like a beacon, run, run, or even have known which nature to obey in running. After all, the boy that was Erasmus did not ever actually see a ghost, unless the oracle in the deep woods had been one – and if she was, he had not known any better.
Each one falls across him as the foal leaps, and he leaps, and the foal curtsies through the mist, and Erasmus dives like a lethargic cat with a toy mouse. He is only hindered here and there, when the ghost-mares and the phantom-stallions learn his antics and also jump, cat-like, into his path. Something in them turns from playfulness to urgency, and something about the fireflies seems less insectoid than they do like true fire, embers nestled into intangible sockets.
There is an orchestral crescendo of a whirring and a crrrrrick-cricking, when the fireflies and the mist are all he can begin to see. The foal falls away from him, light-stepped into the fog that curls about as if smog laden from a dragon, and that is the only time he stopped his hunt. The woods had grown silent about him, but he had not noticed how long it had been, the fireflies exempt. Hovering just above the bobbing heads of black-leafed trees, the ten-o-clock moon ripples and laughs and laughs and laughs.
The thing that is Erasmus (and perhaps even the boy that was, when the aether felt like the sea salt burning in his eyes and his head and his lungs) knows the feeling of death. It is a numb, cold thing, not unlike when one misses a step in the cloying dark and their breath catches in their throat. Your heart starts its final cry, knowing, knowing. Your veins constrict, your muscles loosen. There is nothing glorious about it, even for those who are carried by valkyries. There is only the deep dark that swallows you whole. And what's next –
Thank you. It comes from the mist, no, his ears – he would say his head, but it knows that it can't be. It is as if someone is speaking beside him, damnably close, but he does not feel the warm breath against his lobe or the buzzing pores of another brushing past. There is only the voice, voices, a harmony upturned from hellish gullets that all in a breath sigh and moan and laugh, uttering: thank you, and more.
Death is curling at his legs like vines, up, up. It tickles at his chest with pins and needles, sours his stomach. It doesn't understand the function of bile that suddenly rises in his throat.
The foal returns to him, fleshly. Smug. The thing scours the mind of the Erasmus-That-Was, over the myriad faces of boy-warriors both dead and alive, though all are now-dead. It is a haunt. It is a jeer. Did they follow it here, from those contemptible wastes he left in ruin? Did they come with him on a droplet of blood his shoulder caught, like a hitchhiking parasite? No. It is one from the deep forest, as it pries no familiar image from the mind that-was. The foal smiles then, as if it can hear the thing in Erasmus skin think. Perhaps the child reads it in his face.
Hunger stirs again when he sees the boy's lips turn and his skin quiver.
It's not so bad, boyish arrogance leaks wildly. Erasmus cannot consider the rest of his words. The river, a curse. The feeling of death lurches at the mention of it, as if amusedly. It creeps up his ribs. The grass is drained of its green, the trees are blackened silhouettes. The thing that is Erasmus struggles to remember the vision, but he only dreams of star-clusters collapsed in their solitary armageddons. Planets burn, they implode and cease. Erasmus does not implode. When he steps forward, he doesn't feel the grasses beneath his feet or against his ankles. The hunger escapes the feeling of death – it is acid boiling at the base of his throat now, some screaming thing.
When the colt turns on his heels, laughing, the hunger is at his teeth. He cannot help his predatory instincts, where the boy that was Erasmus may have been running for the river. Maybe he would be drowning by now. But he is gone, gone. This thing is here now, wholly, feral.
When the boy intends to disappear in the black tangle of trees, Erasmus bears down on his receding form with the fury of a descending hawk.
Each one falls across him as the foal leaps, and he leaps, and the foal curtsies through the mist, and Erasmus dives like a lethargic cat with a toy mouse. He is only hindered here and there, when the ghost-mares and the phantom-stallions learn his antics and also jump, cat-like, into his path. Something in them turns from playfulness to urgency, and something about the fireflies seems less insectoid than they do like true fire, embers nestled into intangible sockets.
There is an orchestral crescendo of a whirring and a crrrrrick-cricking, when the fireflies and the mist are all he can begin to see. The foal falls away from him, light-stepped into the fog that curls about as if smog laden from a dragon, and that is the only time he stopped his hunt. The woods had grown silent about him, but he had not noticed how long it had been, the fireflies exempt. Hovering just above the bobbing heads of black-leafed trees, the ten-o-clock moon ripples and laughs and laughs and laughs.
The thing that is Erasmus (and perhaps even the boy that was, when the aether felt like the sea salt burning in his eyes and his head and his lungs) knows the feeling of death. It is a numb, cold thing, not unlike when one misses a step in the cloying dark and their breath catches in their throat. Your heart starts its final cry, knowing, knowing. Your veins constrict, your muscles loosen. There is nothing glorious about it, even for those who are carried by valkyries. There is only the deep dark that swallows you whole. And what's next –
Thank you. It comes from the mist, no, his ears – he would say his head, but it knows that it can't be. It is as if someone is speaking beside him, damnably close, but he does not feel the warm breath against his lobe or the buzzing pores of another brushing past. There is only the voice, voices, a harmony upturned from hellish gullets that all in a breath sigh and moan and laugh, uttering: thank you, and more.
Death is curling at his legs like vines, up, up. It tickles at his chest with pins and needles, sours his stomach. It doesn't understand the function of bile that suddenly rises in his throat.
The foal returns to him, fleshly. Smug. The thing scours the mind of the Erasmus-That-Was, over the myriad faces of boy-warriors both dead and alive, though all are now-dead. It is a haunt. It is a jeer. Did they follow it here, from those contemptible wastes he left in ruin? Did they come with him on a droplet of blood his shoulder caught, like a hitchhiking parasite? No. It is one from the deep forest, as it pries no familiar image from the mind that-was. The foal smiles then, as if it can hear the thing in Erasmus skin think. Perhaps the child reads it in his face.
Hunger stirs again when he sees the boy's lips turn and his skin quiver.
It's not so bad, boyish arrogance leaks wildly. Erasmus cannot consider the rest of his words. The river, a curse. The feeling of death lurches at the mention of it, as if amusedly. It creeps up his ribs. The grass is drained of its green, the trees are blackened silhouettes. The thing that is Erasmus struggles to remember the vision, but he only dreams of star-clusters collapsed in their solitary armageddons. Planets burn, they implode and cease. Erasmus does not implode. When he steps forward, he doesn't feel the grasses beneath his feet or against his ankles. The hunger escapes the feeling of death – it is acid boiling at the base of his throat now, some screaming thing.
When the colt turns on his heels, laughing, the hunger is at his teeth. He cannot help his predatory instincts, where the boy that was Erasmus may have been running for the river. Maybe he would be drowning by now. But he is gone, gone. This thing is here now, wholly, feral.
When the boy intends to disappear in the black tangle of trees, Erasmus bears down on his receding form with the fury of a descending hawk.
@Official Dawn Account - Erasmus chooses to chase after the spirit
