The city of Teloria is not a quiet place at night. It is not quite like the bustle of Ta'Seti, with its merchants and artists and the students. Teloria has all those things, of course, but it is a wilder place, nestled as it is in the protective crescent of forest and mountain, carved as it is from the massive boughs of impossible trees, but for a man born and raised among the crash of wind and waves, under the whispering branches of redwoods he could roost upon, a man well-used to Obscene's Fae celebrations, the noise is nothing at all. He sleeps in any dark corner that pleases him.
And what does Wherewolf dream about? Usually, he doesn't remember. His dreams may be filled with darkness, the sound of the wind howling over heather, or the peculiar way seawater fills your lungs as though it's meant to be there, but beyond these things, he really couldn't say what shape or form his dreams hold. When he wakes, he finds the living world enough of a nightmare that nothing his wicked brain might come up with in sleeping is worth the remembrance.
It is strange, then, that the past two nights, fire has crept in. He's never dreamed about fire before - or, perhaps it is better to say he does not remember dreaming about fire before.
So, tonight, he follows the flames, his shale-dark hooves quenching the light where they land, and if there is any burn to the winding tendrils he does not notice. The snarl of his lips bares a single, irritated fang. He knows, in the way that you do just know, in dreams, who this is.
The cimmerian shade of his dream shivers and falls away, replaced instantly by flickering gold, by the impossibly blue eyes of her bloodline - the half they do not share, that is. Aela is a poisoned chalice, he knows not to trust her beauty or her smiles. They have fought a thousand times, yet no matter how they quarrel they always come together again; because they are siblings, because she is what comes before - fire and chaos - and he is what comes after - the howling dark.
"What the fuck are you doing here, Eels?"
And what does Wherewolf dream about? Usually, he doesn't remember. His dreams may be filled with darkness, the sound of the wind howling over heather, or the peculiar way seawater fills your lungs as though it's meant to be there, but beyond these things, he really couldn't say what shape or form his dreams hold. When he wakes, he finds the living world enough of a nightmare that nothing his wicked brain might come up with in sleeping is worth the remembrance.
It is strange, then, that the past two nights, fire has crept in. He's never dreamed about fire before - or, perhaps it is better to say he does not remember dreaming about fire before.
So, tonight, he follows the flames, his shale-dark hooves quenching the light where they land, and if there is any burn to the winding tendrils he does not notice. The snarl of his lips bares a single, irritated fang. He knows, in the way that you do just know, in dreams, who this is.
The cimmerian shade of his dream shivers and falls away, replaced instantly by flickering gold, by the impossibly blue eyes of her bloodline - the half they do not share, that is. Aela is a poisoned chalice, he knows not to trust her beauty or her smiles. They have fought a thousand times, yet no matter how they quarrel they always come together again; because they are siblings, because she is what comes before - fire and chaos - and he is what comes after - the howling dark.
"What the fuck are you doing here, Eels?"
Your fault.
Not that everyone is being injured, not that they've been attacked, certainly nothing he's done had brought any of this on the group as a whole, that Arik knows, but the Greater Celestials will not or cannot listen to his small pleas and Kostas strikes out from above and behind and then the blood spray catches the boy across his startled face, warm and salty as the tropic ocean. He's knocked to the ground before he knows it and the squeak of the man's teeth as they grind away the pain of the blow lingers in his ears, and the drip drip dripping of blood from above turns the red-gold of his patchwork coat to rust.
My fault
That great bloody gash fills Arik's vision and his fool's heart with guilt. It freezes his feet to the ground, even as it's churned to mud and mess, and the forest around them is torn to shreds by hatred and longing and screaming. The boy's attention is taken up fully by Kostas, he has nothing left to spare anyone else. In his devilry, he had already accepted that he'd be punished on his return, but now he watches the man and knows that this, this is his fault. If Kostas dies here, protecting such a stupid, useless boy...
Where is Kostas? They'll ask and he won't be able to lie. He's dead, Arik will whisper, eyes like seawater.
They'll never forgive you.
They shouldn't, either. If he had never left his cot, this wouldn't have happened. If he had never dared speak with gods, he wouldn't be in these woods. If only he had hung back, perhaps Kostas would have been safe. Or maybe he would have thrown himself into a different fray, helping to free the stolen pair instead of being distracted and dissected protecting a colt too salting addled to know where he belongs. Is it Arik's fault, too, if they die because Kostas' singing sword wasn't there to cut their bonds?
what if, what if, what if--
The flurry of hooves and steel and burning black dizzies him from his place on the ground. Arik is still, head ducked low between his knees, while the fighting reaches a crescendo around them.
What if you die, too?
They couldn't hate him, then, but he doesn't want to die.
His pen knife still lies where it fell when Kostas' charge knocked him away from the Celestial's attack, its little blade dappled with the reflection of starlight and stardark that fills the shredded forest. A rare spark of wisdom keeps him back when he is finally on his shaking hooves once more, knife in hand and held out as steady as he can manage against the encroaching penumbral wanting that fills the hounds of Ursus, but they are pulling back, away from the pirates and their blades, away from the light-warriors.
"Where...?"
His words are killed in his throat by the attack on the woman standing apart, unarmed. She had done nothing to them. Childish rage burns livid in Arik's breast. Their group had never been a threat to the creatures at all, not really. They could have just left without hurting anyone.
"I don't understand. Why did they ask us to make a choice if there wasn't gonna be one?"
It isn't fair.
Not that everyone is being injured, not that they've been attacked, certainly nothing he's done had brought any of this on the group as a whole, that Arik knows, but the Greater Celestials will not or cannot listen to his small pleas and Kostas strikes out from above and behind and then the blood spray catches the boy across his startled face, warm and salty as the tropic ocean. He's knocked to the ground before he knows it and the squeak of the man's teeth as they grind away the pain of the blow lingers in his ears, and the drip drip dripping of blood from above turns the red-gold of his patchwork coat to rust.
My fault
That great bloody gash fills Arik's vision and his fool's heart with guilt. It freezes his feet to the ground, even as it's churned to mud and mess, and the forest around them is torn to shreds by hatred and longing and screaming. The boy's attention is taken up fully by Kostas, he has nothing left to spare anyone else. In his devilry, he had already accepted that he'd be punished on his return, but now he watches the man and knows that this, this is his fault. If Kostas dies here, protecting such a stupid, useless boy...
Where is Kostas? They'll ask and he won't be able to lie. He's dead, Arik will whisper, eyes like seawater.
They'll never forgive you.
They shouldn't, either. If he had never left his cot, this wouldn't have happened. If he had never dared speak with gods, he wouldn't be in these woods. If only he had hung back, perhaps Kostas would have been safe. Or maybe he would have thrown himself into a different fray, helping to free the stolen pair instead of being distracted and dissected protecting a colt too salting addled to know where he belongs. Is it Arik's fault, too, if they die because Kostas' singing sword wasn't there to cut their bonds?
what if, what if, what if--
The flurry of hooves and steel and burning black dizzies him from his place on the ground. Arik is still, head ducked low between his knees, while the fighting reaches a crescendo around them.
What if you die, too?
They couldn't hate him, then, but he doesn't want to die.
His pen knife still lies where it fell when Kostas' charge knocked him away from the Celestial's attack, its little blade dappled with the reflection of starlight and stardark that fills the shredded forest. A rare spark of wisdom keeps him back when he is finally on his shaking hooves once more, knife in hand and held out as steady as he can manage against the encroaching penumbral wanting that fills the hounds of Ursus, but they are pulling back, away from the pirates and their blades, away from the light-warriors.
"Where...?"
His words are killed in his throat by the attack on the woman standing apart, unarmed. She had done nothing to them. Childish rage burns livid in Arik's breast. Their group had never been a threat to the creatures at all, not really. They could have just left without hurting anyone.
"I don't understand. Why did they ask us to make a choice if there wasn't gonna be one?"
It isn't fair.
12-08-2024, 08:11 PM
