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Post by kezz on Jan 3, 2021 22:30:33 GMT
YOU SLICED ME LOOSE AND SAID IT WAS CREATION Sabine has been running for three years. Sometimes dreaming, sometimes awake. Sometimes alone, sometimes not. Sometimes with a child at her hip: a boy who speaks in voices she has not heard, from worlds she has not walked. When she looks at him -- in the closing January light -- it is with a love that shakes the sky. Her legs have longed since forsaken their bone-ache but her heart does not forgive so easily. It holds long onto the memories she has tried so hard to let go. Like a magpie it closets the glancing beauty of ugly things. Across this new plane she has etched herself into the earth, perhaps it will not erase her grief but she hopes, prays, anyway. For this deathless pilgrimage has always been without end; she only wonders what might catch her if it does. But tonight, moondrunk and alive, Sabine thinks of other things. The air is pine-heavy and green and bright in her lungs. The forest reaches up, up, up to the clouds and it sings to her a song she thought she might never hear again. In the darkness, the girl waits for her boy. art by day-of-shadow | reserved for griff & abel
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Post by griffin on Jan 4, 2021 15:29:35 GMT
 abel to fall was not my fear, | @sabine |
“Sabine,” he says, and from his lips it sounds a little like dear one, a little like my heart.
Abel steps from between two pines with rough bark like a grandfather’s, drinking in the sight of her. Broken moonlight filtered through the trees settles in her horns like a candle in a jar. She is so elegant, a thing made and not born, and as it had since he’d met her his heart flutters in his chest like it’s made of moth-wings, fragile and hopeful and light.
Of all the futures he might have faced, to have this one - there’s nothing else he would have prayed for, if he hadn’t left Caligo behind with everything else on that shore.
He draws near to her, his smile shy but slanting teasing. “I thought I heard you singing, but it was only an old grackle.” Abel presses his muzzle first to her cheek, then beneath the soft cascade of her mane. He inhales deeply, and breathes out in what is not quite a sigh.
“I missed you,” he says in a voice that drops almost to a murmur, although he had only been gone since the afternoon. Sometimes, when he leaves her (even for so short a time), it feels a little like waiting on that dock, not knowing if he’d be boarding a ship alone. It feels like leaving every good part of himself behind.
But he has always come back. She has always been there. And he still feels like a boy who can’t quite believe his luck, that he’s drawn a winning hand, that no matter where they go he is home because home is the look in her glass-blue eyes.
Still, he knows they can’t be exiles forever. Reluctantly, he withdraws his nose from the curve of her neck. The smell of pine and moonlight is thick as incense around them; both their eyes gleam in the dark.
“I saw no sign of anyone else. But a mile or so ahead there is a river, and I smelled smoke, coming on the wind from the east.” There is no need to tell her what smoke means. It might as well be hanging in the air between them, restless and rising.
“What do you want to do, Sabine?” |
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Post by kezz on Jan 4, 2021 22:32:23 GMT
YOU SLICED ME LOOSE AND SAID IT WAS CREATION She hears her name in his throat long before the darkness lets him leave its jealous embrace. SabineShe often feels nameless these days; more thing than being, more feeling than reason. Full of the water she borrowed from the river, she moves with the gentle persistence of a wayward current. If only she could have borrowed its fearlessness, too. But like all things lost-and-found, Sabi has learned to trust in a few small certainties. To relearn a language that had laid bare the most vulnerable pieces of her heart -- to place faith in those dark dark eyes and hold every part of him too-close until there is no telling which bone is his and which organ is hers. For when her name comes (as it always does) from his lips, his sanctuary-dark mouth, it is hers again. There is a shyness to his smile that catches her ever off-guard. As though they were children again, lost to the desert and the pull of one man and his monster. Opening herself beneath the brilliance of the wolfsilver moon, Sabine turns to catch his touch hungrily, for every moment spent apart is too long and every smile he offers her is too much. "I don't know what you're talking about, Abel, I have oft been mistaken for a siren."Their shared silhouette parts the sky as it falls behind the canopy, like ghosts tied to the moon and she feels the heartbeat of the forest deep within her veins. It brings a warning. So does he. Sabine's smile fades as fast as the earth dries beneath her feet. She had not forgotten her march (she may not always be moving, but she is always running) but perhaps for a moment she had tried. And like the sun at her back, fear rises in her gaze. She wants to be brave. Oh, how she dreams to be shot through with lionblood and fire -- to be carved from the flesh of her mother, bursting with a wildness and the heat of noonhigh -- but Sabine has found paralysis in her trauma and she does not know how to break free. "We should turn back," a whisper into the darkness, a prayer to keep them safe, "where is Siska?" art by day-of-shadow
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