Zsoka

I live the death of the young and the free

She is not the only one running in this wood.

Zsoka calls himself the master of the body because, for now, in this dreamworld of which he is unaware, he is in control. He is unhindered, free, and weightless. The earth that rises to greet him with every bound is like a soft cushion or a layer of cloud. And no longer does that twisted leg bungle each step, no longer does it slow his motion and trip his walk, his run, his flight.

Because, after all, what use does a bird have for running on the ground?

Every churn of the shoulder is a flap of a set of black wings--a wide wingspan that carries him gracefully closer to the center of the deep woods. This place has so much meaning to the one who was once in control of this form, but Zsoka holds no such attachments. The woods are merely a place to stretch his wings, long silken feathered capes with primaries tracing lines in the pine needles dotting the red ground.

When the familiar mare appears before him, his heart lifts. How good it is to see her! He feels as if it has been years, as if this moment of this sighting is his freedom from a cage. His wings tuck as the trees grow closer and he watches her play her game, awkwardly trying to imitate it, in awe of the magic that rises at her side. Knox's jaded presence is gone, for this moment of pleasure.

"Bird, slow down!" he whinnies out into the wood, trying to catch up with her, feeling as if she will never stop running, as if she will never turn to greet him. The thought brings an anger to him, childish and familiar, but when he tries to grasp at its source he finds his mind to be muddled. That memory, that grudge, is gone in this land of feathers and fun.

His wings fold and he runs on their joints as if they were legs, hobbling in an awkward, hopping sort of way, and panting at the exertion of the run. "Bird, slow down! Turn, look, I'm like you now!"

But somewhere in a dark corner this dream is a nightmare. Knox cannot find Manhattan, and Zsoka's lack of care has left her out of this unnatural world. She is gone, and with it the hunter's last tether. Somewhere, in his lost mind, every step of his ancestor's run is a sharp stab of pain and a deadening, increasing weight of four white wings wrapped about the forelegs and neck: choking, pulsing, screaming as the ghost of their body clutches him to remind him of a murder.


[[Dream thread that will be remembered upon waking and have bearing on character development. Knox is dressed as Zsoka. Zsoka thinks his forelegs are wings (and sees them as such--others may as well), is unaffected by his limp leg, and has forgotten why he was ever mad at Isopia. Knox sees the wings as Muriel's wings, covered in blood, and imagines that he is being choked by her ghost. Manhattan is not present.]]