She is watching the ghost-foal dance when it begins.
She is watching him dance, and she is laughing, and she is not understanding the way her lungs start to tremble and her heart begins to flutter like a thread unraveling in the wind. She is following after him and trying to dance alongside him, and with every step she feels lighter—
with every step her skin shivers—
with every step she feels as though she is slipping away—
She does not notice at first the way he is turning grey instead of silver, or how his hooves begin to tap out a rhythm on the grass when before there was only the hiss of mist. She does not notice the color leaching from the world (how can she, when he is the brightest thing around, framed by all those fireflies?) She does not notice until it is too late.
The cry is strangled in her throat when she looks down and sees only mist, and fog, and smoke. And then, oh then she understands the terrible, weightless feel of her stomach, the way her steps had felt far more graceful than she had ever been capable of. And only then does she feel the cold once again settle into her not-there-veins, as the veil of ice she has always worn comes crashing back down.
“Maeve!” she cries, and in her voice she can hear the warnings of the stranger from before. “I — I don’t know!” she rushes back to the younger girl’s side, presses in tightly against her side (and she tries, oh she tries to not notice the way their legs are tangling together, the way their mist-bodies are blending into one, the way her body feels less and less like her own—).
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t want this—“
But there is no time for apologies. Not now, not when their time is being leeched from them like sand in an hourglass — and hourglasses never did last for very long.
Before she knows it she is running — can it be called running, when her hooves never seem to touch the ground? When she cannot feel the wind on her face, or the leaves and branches snagging in her mane, or hear her heart pounding in her ears?
Does she even exist, if she cannot feel herself?
She is thinking of her parents as she runs after Maeve and the ghost-boy, and of Leonidas and his wild eyes, of the unfinished poems waiting for her in her bedroom, of the sunflowers that tapped on her window in the summer. They all flash past her eyes now, all of them wound up into the shape of a grulla boy who had laughed too spitefully.
So she runs. She runs, because it is the only thing she has left.
a sunflower soul
with rock n roll eyes
curious thoughts
& a heart of surprise
His laughter echoes in your ears, trickling down your spine like ice water. Perhaps it is rage, or disbelief, or panic -- perhaps it is even a mixture of all three -- that has you turning and racing after him. Maybe it is only the feeling of your body becoming insubstantial, of how you’ve become more-thing-than-person that has you acting on instinct, on impulse.
Or maybe you simply saw through his words, and knew better than to trust what he had to say after his betrayal.
Through the grey-twilight forest the grulla colt races, crashing through the underbrush and leaping over fallen logs. And along you follow in pursuit, mist billowing from your shoulders like a cloak. Perhaps you notice now that while the colt is gangly and uncertain on his new legs, you seem to float over the underbrush -- no, through the underbrush, as your body phases in and out of fog. But more likely, you are only focused on catching up to the not-ghost, watching the distance between you open and close like a flower blooming.
Until, something changes -- until, bit by bit, stumble by stumble, leap by leap, you begin to draw closer. Until you blink and you are suddenly on the colt’s heels, and one final stride later, about to collide --
“Wait--!”
You fall through empty space.
The colt disappears into a cloud of mist the moment your skin touches his, and a chill spreads like ice through your veins. Perhaps your body is already beginning to feel more solid again, the feeling returning to your limbs in a rush of cold. Or maybe it takes longer, and you are left there wondering if what the spirit-boy said was true, if you are now stuck in a world not your own. It’s not so bad, he had said -- but nor do you think would it be so good, either.
But as you stand there, flowers begin to grow from the ground the colt last stood upon. Dozens of slender, silver wildflowers, grouped in the rough form of a horse and shining brightly with a light that seems to come from within their very petals.
In the distance you can hear festival music, and over a hill you can see the light of a bonfire; but something catches your eye first. A flower that is not like the others, that remains closed even while the others celebrate. You draw closer to it - what’s one last mystery to solve?
It is not until you lower your head to the bud that it begins to stir, unfurling its petals slowly and shaking the sleep from them. There is a light glowing in its center, a single, shuddering flame rising from the heart of it. And it seems to you a gift, waiting to be plucked.
@maeve & @maret have reached the end of the quest! The spirit had been trying to trick them to buy himself more time to escape. He leads you both through a wild chase through the forest, but just before reaching the end he stumbles one final, fatal time -- and you are upon him. The ending of this quest is your choice -- your characters could remain half-ghost for some time, or could immediately return to his body. Feel free to powerplay the spirit!
Growing where the ghost-boy last stood is a cluster of moonflowers - two of which remains closed. They unfurls as you approach, one for each of you, a single flame rising from their centers. The color of the flower and the flame is your choice! To claim this thread as completed, you'll need one last "exit" post.
i'd like to make myself believe that planet earth turns slowly
it's hard to say that i'd rather stay awake when i'm asleep
'cause everything is never as it seems
❖
Anger isn't something I'm used to, so it feels really weird in my stomach and my head. Only, I realize it's what I feel when my body presses into the colt. Then just like that, he disappears. I blink, completely and utterly confused.
I am cold, but then I am me. I can feel the ground again and jump up and down in a little victory dance. I turn right around to look for Maret only to see that she's back to normal now too. "We did it!" I call to her, the biggest smile on my face.
Something tickles my leg and I turn back to see tons of silver flowers appearing out of nothing. They form the shape of a horse where the colt used to be. My eyes are wide with curiosity- what kind of magic made all this? Is this the colt giving us an apology or maybe this had all been a test? I know adults like to do silly things like that.
There are two flowers in particular that catch my eye. They aren't bloomed like the others are, so I walk slowly towards them. For a moment, nothing happens but then I watch them shake and open up to reveal a light like fire glowing in the center of them. At first, the fire-ness makes me jump but I don't feel heat like a normal fire would give off. Maybe it's just all in the looks and I don't have anything to worry about. At the least, I know Momma would really love one and it might make up for how far I've run off from the festival. So without a second thought, I pluck one for me and pluck the other to offer to Maret.
"I haven't seen anything like this before. I guess it'll be a reminder of our adventure," I say, smiling at my new friend.
I can hear all the sounds of the festival in the distance and nudge Maret's shoulder (I'm still grateful that I can feel again). "Race you back!" And then I'm off, giggling as I crash through the underbrush again with my new prize clutched next to me. Really, I'm just glad to be whole again and I'll have one crazy story to tell Momma later.
Perhaps Maret will look back on this moment as her first true test, her first lesson that adventure can be as dangerous as it is exciting. Later she will find herself looking back on this day, and comparing it to her adventures with Leonidas; later, when she makes the decision to leave home, she will carry this memory tucked away into her heart like a warning.
The world was not always as friendly as it appeared.
Her legs are trembling when the color drains back into them. They still feel unsteady, unstable, like at any moment she might collapse back into the mist, torn apart by the wind, carried off and forgotten. She shudders to think of it (and it will take her many sleepless nights before she is able to finally write about the experience in a way that does not leave her staring blankly at the walls, frozen in her reliving of it.)
It is Maeve’s voice that breaks her out of her trance now. She throws herself against the younger girl, relieved by the solidity of her, the permanence, the warmth. Her heart beats sparrow quick in her chest, painful as it leaps and stutters and jumps again and again and again. She forgets the breathing exercises her father has taught her, forgets all of his lessons — she only stands there petrified, clinging to Maeve like she is the only thing left (and in a way, she is, after what they have experienced.)
“We did it,” she whispers. It is too hard to say anything more than that.
Were she alone, or with anyone else, she might have ignored the flowers. She might have pretended to not see them, or denounced them as another trick from the ghosts (and she has had plenty of tricks for one night.) As it is she only steps cautiously forward alongside Maeve, reluctant to get too close.
But when Maeve plucks the flower and offers it to her, she smiles shyly and accepts it. “I’m not sure I need another reminder,” she confesses. “I certainly will never forget this night.”
And again she is thinking of the stranger’s words, and the stories the other girls in the court had told her about this path. Her heart clenches again, and she wonders if she is different now like the old man had suggested she would be. She is not sure she wants to find out how different she is, or in which ways.
When Maeve offers to race her back to the Court, it is a relief. ”Wait up!” she calls after her friend, the forest echoing her voice back to her. The repetitive movements of her legs steadies her heart into an almost-smooth rhythm; each step brings her closer to home. Faster and faster she runs until she is shoulder to shoulder with Maeve, crashing recklessly through the undergrowth, uncaring now for the trail.
And each scratch on her shoulder from a branch or a bramble is only a reminder that she is whole, and she is real, and she is very much alive.
And oh, it is the greatest relief.
a sunflower soul
with rock n roll eyes
curious thoughts
& a heart of surprise
