you'll be safe in my arms

EVERY SCAR WILL BUILD MY THRONE

Moons had passed since I set hoof into this cursed land. Everything had begun to freeze up and go into hibernation of some sorts, frost tinkling in the grass around me and warning my steps. I kept thinking about that child Otem. "We're from Helovia." A sentence I never thought would feel so heavy. As dark veiled legs moved me forwards, I had no control over where I was heading; I simply just.. existed. Drifting like fog across this abomination of a world without a clue of where I was. Helovia was gone. My home. All that I had known.. gone. Thoughts were blurred in my mind, as it was all just depressing. Cold winds draped over me, with the burning hot blood running through my veins, keeping me in movement towards nothing without stopping to take shelter.

Flashes of the land that'd once been my life took over the train of thought, cloudy as I saw the faces of everyone that had wronged me or been wronged by me. Abi.. I would never be able to redeem myself to her, that strange medicine hat filly. We had ended our relationship on the worst of terms, maybe even close to being hatred, and now she was gone.
"Azarel... I know we aren't children.. But am I wrong for wanting those carefree times back?"
I still remembered our last moments together and it stung my old heart. Her last smile, filled with the pain of a heartbroken filly, flashed before my mind and suddenly a haze fell over my red eye. Tears. Splendid.

My sisters' faces faded into sight; Destry, who had taken my breath away at first sight, and Cahira whom had left me in a screaming mess right before I took the throne of Arazar. Were they still alive? Or had they met the same fate my father did? Shaking my head hard, I dismissed the thought and looked up. How..
How the fuck did I pass by the rainforest already? Turning around, I saw the dark trees and shadows swirl a while behind me. Frost followed my hoofsteps up until where I stood, where the land turned into a.. desert? Flat and boring by miles across. Yet as I took a step onto the sand, I was shot across the heart with what was revealed to me.

The castle.
It stared at me, shimmering and calling to me, pulling me closer. Erae stood nearby, posing as the future Queen she was and smiling wider than a Cheshire cat. She never smiled, but it was nice to see my younger little girl doing it for once with a twinkle in her blue eyes. Ayla would never be like her younger sister, the passion for ruling had skipped her completely. The cremello unicorn skipped happily towards me, stretching to nuzzle me and I reached out to her. "I'm finally home."

If only I had felt the quicksand slowly swallowing my hooves.

"Talk."

naia-art
ooc: ;____________________;
wc: 491
tags: @Cahira

Like the stars chase the sun over the glowing hill, I will conquer. She was drowning, sinking, plunging into the rapacious sands so gleefully, so merrily, it ought to have been that she resided beneath the crust; that her true home was down there, and here she came, the triumphal return. Somewhere inside her head there is the ominous cry of alarms, of a voice blaring, move, you’re dying, this is a trick—and she sighs out a trembling breath, cool, her skin writhing with icy dew. You’re tired, something else hums, so friendly, so caring. Rest, and like the martyr held in the grip of the python she calms, feels herself about to slip, slipping, leave; everything was warm, and there was a sweetness on her tongue, and barley under her hooves. There is a stretch between her and a roaring like the sound of a thousand waves, crashing, churning unto the shore at once, mud showers her stomach and then she sees what it is; a waterfall, streaming over the lofty hills with so much majesty it makes her weep. This was where she was born. This was her kingdom—she’d had a nightmare, a dream of dreams, but she was home, she was finally here. From the saplings behind her she hears a stirring, the crackling of leaves, and as she turns and sees the face of the intruder, her heart soars. “Welcome back,” Delinne says, there is no madness in her gaze, only amusement, and yes, yes; there was Dezba at her fetlocks, the scars across her maw evocative of ravines, chasms. Her mother must see the look on her face, because she laughs, low and so, so warm, “You were asleep for a long time.” From beneath the hanging branches of weary oaks the crunch of her hooves in the freshly fallen snow seem preposterously loud in the silence, and she hesitates; feels his gaze on her, dissonant and lingering, she wants to plead, to demand he tell her the truth; she is the same as he is, but she isn’t, she’s a mongrel, a halfblood. So when she tries to speak and all that comes out is a croak and suddenly her eyes are too watery even though her tongue feels like sandpaper and he’s at once by her side she grows livid, wrenching away from his worried touch as if she’d been scalded. “Why do you care?” she spits at him, not meaning any of the venom, he’s the paragon of a flawless son, brave and lordly and so high above she cannot possibly reach him, and she is a coward and a mistake. Why didn’t he despise her? He ought to have. He should have. “Because,” and she looks up, meets his gaze, and finds that it seems tired, too, like the oaks. “You’re my sister.” Not really, not like Destry is, she wants to be say, to be furious, but all she manages is a sniffle, a gurgle somewhere in her throat, and Azarel roughly prods her onwards, mollifying his tone. “But if you don’t hurry up, you’re going to be a icicle.” (She can’t stay mad at him, he’s her brother, so she ends up laughing instead.) “Mom—” she chokes, too joyous to form proper words, sentences, ballads of silver. And then she’s vaulted towards them and buried her face in Dezba’s velvety fur, sobbing with effervescent laughter and when she raises her crown and feels the glowing sensation of the sun on her skin she thinks she may never stop. Delinne had never looked this vivid before, so tranquil, as if there wasn’t a care in the world, and for a astonished moment she realizes why. “You’re smiling,” she says, and mother reaches towards her, tugging affectionately at her forelock. “Ought I to frown? Come, now. Your siblings are up ahead.” She doesn’t have a choice, driving her briefly chilled legs onward after mother as she bounded ahead, and as Cahira reaches her side she capers a perplexed exhale, “My… siblings? You mean Azarel?” But mother only seems entertained at the flummoxed inflection of her words, warbling a hymn of mirth into the wind before replying humorously, “Siblings, child. I think—out of anyone—I should know the amount! What an odd dream you must’ve had to be so muddled...” And she had, she did, so with a weary smile she tells her the tale, the adventures, the places she’d gone, the monsters she’d fought; up until she sees the woman before her, and all the oxygen her blood held seemed to evacuate out her lungs. “Destry—?” “Puuur-pl-eee,” she’d exclaimed with ineptness, the result of an unruly tongue, and oh, how she could drink this silhouette in, lilac and charcoal and with a gaze like rubies, precious gems; she was superb, she was magnificent and finesse and everything Cahira wasn’t, so she struggles to make her happy, to see the hatred reflected back at her meld into pride. So she goes again, vigorous and determined, “Purple!” And it was elation, it was bliss, filling her grin with jubilance and thrilling her with her achievement, with language, the woman would be charmed; she would love her, and so she preens, swells with unspoken praise. She receives screams instead, and like a sail without the breeze she shrivels away, there was so much ire, so much violence in that voice; so much disgust with her that she feels it burn in the back of her throat, bile. Spittle flies from the seraph’s mouth and then it is over, she is gone, and Cahira flounders for air. “Don’t you dare even think of speaking to me again. And keep that thing out of my sight.” (Be careful what you wish for—sometimes it comes true.) “So I guess I’m scraps,” her brother chimes in, and there isn’t a crown laden with the souls he had slaughtered in his crusade for power on his head, none of the bitterness, or the age. “No ‘hello, Azarel, I love you too,’” and of course she does, she wants to say; but all she can manage is a feeble wheeze. Destry rolls her eyes at Azarel before lugging Cahira forwards by a tumble of mane, “C’mon, silly. Time for us to go,” and then the words bolt from her lips like lightning, “You mean—that is to say—y-you aren’t mad—you don’t hate me?” Azarel squawks something incredulous and mother only beams at her, patiently, as if she were young and foolish and she’d inquired why the grass was verdant, or the flowers bloomed. “Why would I hate you? You’re my sister, dummy,” and all she hears is thunder. She is caught, captivated, so infatuated by the lie she sees and hears and feels, that the ocean of sand up to her cannons and steadily rising doesn't register in her mind. Cahira is sinking. And she doesn't care. @Azarel Cahira

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Shadows swirled around the Scint River, old friends and foes climbing out to haunt their loved ones to their faces, sounding hearts breaking and foals crying. One clump however swirled further than the river, floating towards the thirsty flats of Halcyon - like a dark mist, nearly thick enough to cut through. A mix between a roar and a purr sounded in the dark shadows, forming the well-known silhouette of a mare and her jaguar. Travelling quickly towards the flats, the two shapes seemed determined to a fault. As they neared the two horned equines slowly sinking to their deaths, I stumbled as the black shadow jumped me, licking my neck and withers while hanging on to my back using her claws. Lucky for her, my skin had grown tougher against sharp knives for claws. "Dezba! Calm down," I laughed, and the jaguar landed on the ground again. She stroked herself against my front legs before jumping up to stand on her hind legs, looking at me straight in the eyes. She was rather tall when standing on her hind legs, almost taller than me. The feline started to lick my face and I chuckled quietly. This was all a mere memory of my past, yet.. "I haven't been gone for that long. Where is Cahira and Azarel?" My children. Dezba didn't even have time to answer my question before I heard tiny, tiny hoof steps clicking against a stone floor. I looked up, smiling widely. Behind the newborn, stood my son, wearing an equally wide smile on his lips. "My loves..." It wasn't even worth it asking for Destry. She had probably escaped for good and wouldn't let me see her again - but I hoped she would forgive me. That scene wasn't real, the one playing out in my head. They - the children I had birthed - were in front of me, so very clearly drowning. "Aza. Have you taken care of your sister for me?" I bumped my maw against the colt's neck as I spoke, breathing in his scent. It was earthy, blended with sweat and masculinity, just like a young stallion should smell. Except he was scented with the rusty tang of dried blood, blended with regret and lost power. My only son. Did he feel my maw against his scarred skin, did he feel me breathing into his long forelock? Most importantly.. did he see me? "Azarel? Wake up. Please, love." Positions shifted and suddenly I was lowering my head to kiss the face of my daughter, but my memory changed into the now and a hint of panic stirred in me. "Mummy's home, Cahira," I whispered, smiling at her shaky legs and big, sparkling eyes. Her legs slowly disappearing, eyes twinkling as she saw someone else. Did she see me?. Even if her father was a heartless beast, she was nothing like him. She was mine. My daughter. And my daughter was sinking faster. "CAHIRA! Get away from here! Please!" Dezba roared at the mare, white and all pristine even if wounded and bloodied. "Please, my child... Run." Looking back at my boy, he looked so distant.. as if in a dream. "Azarel! Listen to me! Why aren't you two listening?!" "Talking." tags // @Cahira wordcount // 535 ooc // Posted with Azarel because Rift Havoc was inactive :") will post as him later today!

Like the stars chase the sun over the glowing hill, I will conquer. Had she known — had she seen and known the fate that was to partake of her — had she felt the covetous fangs of sand gnawing, famished, into her flesh, would she have ran? Would she have chiseled arteries in the wake of her alarm, her desperation to be liberated? But there was so much affection here, it overwhelmed her, tore her nearly asunder. And all by such a small declaration! How deplorably lonely she had been, how long, how long she had aspired to be the daughter of Azzaron, instead of a thief; a villain, a monster. Mother had loved him, and Azarel, and Destry — hadn’t that been her accusation? Hadn’t Destry presumed mother a traitor? A swindler, like father. Jealousy was a vicious companion indeed, for if she would have been of the same begetter as they, she would have very nearly rejoiced in his death; something so terrible even Azarel loathed to have told it — rather than live as she had, with the hatred she felt so keenly laden at her spine. But oh, oh, this was love, this dangerous vulnerability cheerfully and readily given to someone else, and she wished she could speak, except there seemed to be a mountain in her way and the thunder grew, and grew, resounding through every vein, every follicle. The illustration before her dims with something else, it fissures and peels away, and for a horrifying moment she feels the sensation of falling, falling, “Destry! W-wait— I love—” A murkiness too deep to see by drapes itself over her; swaddles her, and she cries out in fear, for the rumbling had arose the roaring of a beast, so familiar, so dear and so terrifying, so atrocious a sound as to hope to never hear it again. There are lashes in her skin if she were let slip the recollection (anamnesis) she so yearned to be washed in the river Lethe. For how long she was there, she wasn’t certain; merely that she knew if she stayed, she would sink so thoroughly beneath its apathy as to never see the light of day again; and when sight came again, when achingly recognizable sand dunes extended as far as she could possibly see, she was blinded by their brilliance and simultaneously made sick with the abruptness of the vision before her. He looks so much like he always had, a youthful simpler of vigor and courage and strength, there was no crown carved from treachery and deceit upon his forehead; no cape as crimson as the blood that marred his throne. Aslan coiled about his cannons so fondly, and he was as vivid as she remembered, wreathed in a sea of gilt, as warm and true as his heart, oh, sweet Aslan. Her playmate — later, her rescuer. The previous apparitions she had faced seethed briefly in her mind, and then wisped away, lost in a hallucinogenic miasma of compliance. She was home, and she would never be furious at him again for as long as she yet lived, surely she wouldn’t! “Brother,” she laughed, laughed as if she were a mere child, so giddy was she in her elation at the sight of him, “I have been haunted by the strangest dreams…” And then something to the right of her caught her eye, and with good humor she turned to meet the shade fully, only to see with a burgeoning grin it was mother, as well as she had ever looked; perhaps as well as she had seen her since they had left the Falls, healthy and sensible, if a little grim. But her gaze is hearty, and when she speaks, it is with charity. “Your gaiety must temper itself, dear. We have far to travel to the west, and the Ashary is vast and barren.” “As if any lonely desert could sabotage us when we are together! And I daresay Dezba will find the pack rats rather edible,” Cahira replied with merriment afoot. But there is something else, something pestering her mind, and as she glances about curiously, a familiar chattering and press of sleek fur at her heels caught her attention. Downwards her gaze went, and there, imperturbable as always, she met the chilly lead of Nótt’s eyes. From within his coat a glossy, fluid shape darted out, undoubtedly to find a better vantage point; and she knew immediately who it must be. “Dagr!” She cried, lunging earthward to embrace them both, “Nótt! By Fate’s mercies I have missed you — both of you! For in my nightmares I thought I had lost you.” Dagr simply beams, but Nótt draws away from her, distressed by the scrutiny. “You know we’d never leave you,” he gently admonishes. “Of course I do! But it all seemed… so real.” Suddenly aware of the stillness of her sibling, she turned, baffled by his muteness. Azarel had done many things, though missing a chance to simper and talk were little among them. “Brother? Whatever is the matter with you today?” Her tone rather lowered with concern. “Have you caught ill?” @Azarel Cahira

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