Post by griffin on Jan 1, 2021 16:54:32 GMT
gabriel you're always laughing but you always look afraid | @open |
He tells himself that he is dreaming.
How else could he be here, without the bitter iron of the rift’s magic on his tongue? Once, he thinks wryly, his dreams were full of fantastical things - now he only longs for a place like this, a forest with a chorus of birdsong and a red carpet of needles beneath his feet.
There is no change in him - the same collection of scars silver his chestnut coat, the same aches curl in the hollows between his bones. He has no wings, no hands, no teeth that press too sharply, begging to be bared.
With a soft breath that is barely a sigh, Gabriel begins to walk.
Just before him, a woodpecker dips between the trees with a flash of ruby red and a rolling tchur. It’s hard to tell by the slanting sunlight what hour it is, but the cool air suggests morning and tastes pine-sweet. The stallion moves cautiously, his dark eyes watchful, ears attentive. He has long since learned it is foolish to trust any world, even his own dreams.
And he knows he is right not to, when he sees the first hints of ruins. Among the roots and rocks and logs-becoming-earth there are more unnatural shapes, great squares shaggy with moss. The suggestion of a ruined wall trails away like a monstrous snakeskin; he picks his way carefully over it, as though it might yet move. And there, at last, is a temple in the trees. Its ceiling has long since crumbled, along with one of its walls, but it still stands hunched. The angle of the sunlight is too low too illuminate its interior.
All the birds have stopped their singing. But Gabriel doesn’t know if it’s because of the ruins before him - or the figure approaching from behind him, who he turns his face toward, his expression impassive.
How else could he be here, without the bitter iron of the rift’s magic on his tongue? Once, he thinks wryly, his dreams were full of fantastical things - now he only longs for a place like this, a forest with a chorus of birdsong and a red carpet of needles beneath his feet.
There is no change in him - the same collection of scars silver his chestnut coat, the same aches curl in the hollows between his bones. He has no wings, no hands, no teeth that press too sharply, begging to be bared.
With a soft breath that is barely a sigh, Gabriel begins to walk.
Just before him, a woodpecker dips between the trees with a flash of ruby red and a rolling tchur. It’s hard to tell by the slanting sunlight what hour it is, but the cool air suggests morning and tastes pine-sweet. The stallion moves cautiously, his dark eyes watchful, ears attentive. He has long since learned it is foolish to trust any world, even his own dreams.
And he knows he is right not to, when he sees the first hints of ruins. Among the roots and rocks and logs-becoming-earth there are more unnatural shapes, great squares shaggy with moss. The suggestion of a ruined wall trails away like a monstrous snakeskin; he picks his way carefully over it, as though it might yet move. And there, at last, is a temple in the trees. Its ceiling has long since crumbled, along with one of its walls, but it still stands hunched. The angle of the sunlight is too low too illuminate its interior.
All the birds have stopped their singing. But Gabriel doesn’t know if it’s because of the ruins before him - or the figure approaching from behind him, who he turns his face toward, his expression impassive.
＃ENY ADOXOGRAPHY
