Every little thing seems so endless, stretched far and wide to the point where there will never be a stop. She searches for that one stop, the break between land and water, where the sky melds perfectly into a spread of blue. She’s ready to disappear, to fade into the arms of the sea and live a happy life without the constant barrage of socialization.
Maybe the sea would be the one to love her through all of her mistakes and flaws.
Thin water splashes with each step. When she grows tired enough, she’ll drag her gravestone hooves along the ground, drag them until her legs tell her they cannot take anymore. She will let herself crumble then. She’ll give up and think about her mistakes, quite possibly wither and die and let Hobgoblin live the autonomous lifestyle he wishes to cherish.
Even now, he is barely with her mentally.
His claws clutch to her champagne hide. They dig deep and guide small trails of blood out from the protective barriers of vessels and skin and out into the warm, starlit night. It’s so humid, even for a southern Tallsun. Had she grown so accustom to the dry, arid air of the desert island that she’d forgotten what humidity felt like? Lightning explodes across the sky along the horizon line. How far out was it? How long ago had it gone by, or how long would it be til it reached them?
The stars hanging over their heads feels as large and wide as the sea. Goblin spills a short chirp at the heavy cry of thunder when it rolls over their bodies. While he doesn’t mind the rain, the thunder, of all things to take down a self-proclaimed king, is enough to send him in hiding. Sort of childhood memory that didn’t go very well.
Claws that grip tighter are enough to bring out a sigh. It’s the first noise she’s made in a long time, silenced by grief and bitter, harsh agony. She drowns herself into their pools built of all the tears she’s shed.
“Thunder.”
A head turns to watch him chitter, opening leather wings wide and crouching upon a duo of scaled legs. His jaws appear to vibrate while she watches him with one eye. All of her movement stops in a single lurch that sends her brother up into the air.
The flurry of outcries that follow are enough to remind her that even though she’s seen Hobgoblin be a beast, monster of ice and depth many of times, there is still a weak and scared child living within him. Something that she’s influenced.
She wonders if she’s broken a piece of him with her sharp, blade-edged shards. Those broken pieces have increased in lethalness over the last few weeks. There’s even been a brutal chuckle split from the Rougarou and a smile sprinkled over Sikeax’s face when there was a suggestion that maybe Sikeax should learn to fight with her words and thoughts.
If they liked to change her so much, then why not let it be given back to them?
Or was it that she let herself change beneath their force, to shift blindly because she isn’t sure what makes her her just yet? She doesn’t care to think that there’s a ‘real’ Sikeax that’s meant to be her ‘real’ self out there, and if there is, she’s never taken the time to think about it’s existence. It’s only one of those things that the philosophers might have a better time thinking over.
Her eyes go to the mirror reflection painted over the thin layer of water, to herself and the image she’s let herself become. Dark scars scatter themselves around the base of her ears and along the topline of her neck. Slowly drying blood paints itself where his talons have dug into her once beautiful coat.
She actually is beautiful, with those baby blues, soft hearted and weak, selfless when she knows it’s best to be cold and cruel, just like the world wants her to be, overpowered by a heart that doesn’t even know how to poison the dying who might beg and prisoners who may need sedatives.
There is no sign of the baby she believes herself to carry. She demonizes the child when it doesn’t make her belly grow, when it doesn’t care to aid in hiding her ribs again.
“When do you think it’ll finally happen?”
Fear rumbles in like an annoying, distant noise who owns no off switch. Is it me?
Sudden bright lights force her to wince, crinkling the areas about her eyes and face into a mess of mountains and valleys while her eyes clamp shut. Hobgoblin screams about the aftercry of thunder.
“HURRY. STORM.”
Wings flap a lot harder than she’s used to hearing, screeches bellowing out endlessly when the storm could be miles and miles away, far from their reach, but she isn’t sure as of how to tell him it’s not an issue.
He never really seems to listen or care, pushing her along when his talons entangle themselves in her mane and drag her forth.


"talk"

Sikeax