without your love, without your touch, this world for me is never gonna be enough
thinking about you as if i lost you

The return back home is a bit too difficult to muster, too harsh to think about when she guesses on repeat that they’d laugh at her just as her patrol partner had done. Yes, there were mares in the Dragon’s Throat that had taken up the art of seduction, but herself? She’d never seen herself as that. She’d never taken interest in love and affections, the ideas of having sexual affairs with anyone were too foreign to find them even slightly interesting.
Even children had been a distant thought, excluding the child she had agreed to carry with Amara, but there was something different about that. Amara was her friend, her best friend, the only soul she’d ever really relied on to still be there when there was nothing left to be found. Raising a child with Amara, carrying a child with her, it all seemed natural, like they’d always meant to do exactly that.
But then again, Sikeax never fails to remember that she has only known a short amount of her life in which Amara was not always there. They might as well have been born on the same day, at the same time, near to one another so that there wouldn’t of had been a moment wasted.
Hobgoblin snorts.
“Trusty Amara gone?”
Even though she can’t see him, she knows he’s there. He cuts her away and leaves her to stand alone, to laugh at her when she grazes and can’t see where he’s left her to be. The end of the world is close enough that she can imagine he’s thrown himself off of the cliff, diving towards the part of the ocean that she’s always been to scared to look down at, to dive into. It pulls a facade of hatred and rage, one that makes Hobgoblin smile because he see’s himself in it, and wonders if Sikeax is actually stupid because she chooses to live in the shadow of his might.
“I don’t want her to see me like this.”
She questions if he can actually hear her speak to him. Her voice drowns out below the mass of the crashing waves and the roaring screams of her thoughts that tell her maybe it’s best to go ahead and give it up now.
It’s for the best. Then I won’t have the child and I won’t have to be burdened with something I don’t want.
Pushing her head out over the ledge, muscles lock in her legs and knees close up like some sort of final thought might to keep her from really jumping. While the water surely wouldn’t kill(and since when could it actually kill her?), the fall and stones would do her in.
“Do you think it’s worth it?”
No response, even when they both know he’s somewhere down there, hiding along the cliff face and waiting for the moment when she does throw herself away like many have probably done in the past.
“I don’t want to be the mother of a child I don’t want.”
She thinks to herself that she is some sort of monster, that she probably deserves to die with the child when she falls. Mothers were meant to love their children. Who was she to break the rules? What did she have to prove in breaking the sacred rules of motherhood?
She is nothing more than a monster, and if her bones are to erode against the rocks, drug out to the sea that she loves so much, then maybe she’ll rot in peace.
“Kill baby?”
A shake of the head. He’s still gone, far off in a place where he probably can’t see any of her responses, yet alone hear them. He probably doesn’t care, he’ll probably go on to live without her and this bastard that she’s forced to carry. It’s the lifestyle that he wanted most, wasn’t it?
She doubts they’ll even miss her.

OOC: NOT A DEATH THREAD.

Sikeax is only extremely emotional and upset about thinking she’s pregnant and doesn’t know how to get rid of the (non-existent)baby so suicidal thoughts great job chick

@Amara

"Talk?"

without your love, without your touch, this world for me is never gonna be enough
thinking about you as if i lost you

Will the water be cold? Will the falling feel endless? Will I die on impact, or will i be forced to suffer just a while longer? Her blue eyes are cold, broken and hard, her heart sharpened into a blade. She doesn’t want this, but it’s for the best, it’s so that the baby will never have to exist in a world and suffer its first days when Sikeax rejects it and refuses to raise it.
This way is so much better than having her herd watch her birth a child she doesn’t want, smiling and congratulating her when all she wants to do is sob through their words, knowing that she’s created a life only for it to be wasted.
Hobgoblin is tired of listening to the complementation of suicide. Sorrow only weighs him down. It lives on his shoulders and crawls into his mind as it’s done her’s, and makes sure that he is to suffer just as much as Sikeax does.
“Either die already, or give up.”
If he was there with her, she would stare at him, shattered and destroyed because he’s just thrown her fragile porcelain doll against the cliff faces and black rocks and laughed at it’s pieces when the waves drag over it’s hurt face, crying salty tears of the sea. He doesn’t even bat an eye at how he knows he makes her feel.
She makes him feel just the same with her own emotions and he refuses to let it remain one sided.
By the time that she’s really there, prepared for her descent and the crippling feeling that will surely follow(hopefully for only a short amount of time), staring over the edge into the abyss awaiting her, the world offers her a gift, maybe even a tiny ‘fuck you’.
Amara smells disgusting and looks it too, but her touch is all that really matters. Her breath drags over her skin and pulls her back to reality. Someone will take the child, won’t they? She can drop the child off at another herd’s border and simply leave, hoping someone will come along and take them without a second thought as of who their mother might of been.
She lets the world go black. There is someone happy to see her, happy to give her affection and make sure she’s okay, and for once, maybe everything is okay.
The smaller mare dwindles beneath her when she pulls herself up, swinging her skull over Amara’s neck so that she’s able to feel reality again when she searches for the sway of her friend’s body, the touch of wounded skin against pristine silk.
They’d lived two very different lives when compared. One caked in blood and decorated with scars, the other perfect physically, but just as destroyed as the first mentally.
"Amara…." Where have you been when I needed you most?
"I've missed you so much."




"Talk?"

without your love, without your touch, this world for me is never gonna be enough
thinking about you as if i lost you

The feel of skin hidden beneath a disgusting mass of coarse, brown hair is tainted with the smell of blood and infection that drives her to the brink of madness, tempting her to let go and bare the whites of her stone eyes against the horror that her best friend has become. How long was Amara living at the bottom of the food chain, rolling in filth, draping herself in blood that Sikeax is scared to know the origins of regardless of the wounds that lace the chestnut’s body?
She knows what the word monster means. It defines Hobgoblin well, given to him by both friends and strangers who are left to reside in fear of his mentality. It’s in the look of his eyes, how he so willing builds himself up to appear larger and more aggressive with the change of his wing position, the hiss that slithers out of his jaws over a forked tongue.
He’s the only monster she’s aware of right now, but…
“Amara become monster. Demon. Amara threat. Look, smell.”
A shadow sweeps over the grasses and soon-to-be-dying wildflowers, circling their embrace with red eyes staring down. Images fill her brain where her eyes have lacked to bring anything; keeping them closed seems for the best. She won’t have to look at Amara then. She won’t be forced to stare at the ocean that waits her arrival in a patient way, as if it’ll be ready to take her away whenever she makes the conscious choice to go.
She’s never thought of him as one to lie. He sets things to his mind and works to achieve them without care as of how it will affect anything in his path. He’s as harsh as the world, brutal and cold.
Looking through his eyes, he force-feeds her only the truth. Amara is a creature of nightmare. All the blood, the wounds, the stench of infection, it all adds up. She can see why the Pegasus has led herself into isolation, armed with good reason.  
Amara death. Amara zombie.
Their embrace shatters, slowly releasing Amara from her hold and leaving her friend to question her thoughts. Touching comes off as taboo when haunted with the memory of flesh and bone slipping away from her very existence, threatened with death just because she’d done something she can’t even remember.
Hobgoblin prods with childish curiosity. His interest burns like hellfire, digging into her skin and seeking out new places to cut.
Why was she out here to die? Why was Amara so broken, living on the brink of dead like a walking skeleton?
“I wanted to go back home.”
She can’t think of a home to define, one where these sort of things don’t exist, where she can actually feel safe and not worry about all of the sins that she’s committed in the past and all the ones she’ll surely make in the future.
But she can’t afford to die now, not in front of Amara. She can find somewhere else to die, far away from any prying eyes and leave Hobgoblin to live his life happily, lacking the burden of the weight of her soul.
Amara needs her.
For this very second, she’s got a reason to live.
“You need to let me heal you. You’re gonna die of an infection if I don’t take care of it now. Is that how you want to die?” Her words come out of her mouth like ice, cutting and hateful as Goblin questions her motives for only a second, and proceeds to smile at her attitude. “I’m not going to the one responsible for your death when I could of been the one to stop it.”
“And what a lovely friend you would of made yourself be for her if she was to die at your feet.”


"Talk?"

without your love, without your touch, this world for me is never gonna be enough
thinking about you as if i lost you

Infection’s putrid scent of death works to smother her nostrils, working furiously to destroy the barriers she’s made out of stuffing her face with mint and other strong scented herbs. It makes her body coil, but Amara could be living upon the brink of death, and if she was to be lost because her best friend couldn’t withstand the stench of her affliction, then Sikeax had done nothing to save her.
And oh, what a life wasted that would of been.
“Let Amara die. Amara die either way. Amara is walking corpse.”
You don’t even know what a walking corpse looks like.
There’s a certain sort of snap to her voice that makes his tongue knot within his mouth. While she does tempt him to lash at her and to force her to brandish his mark of control, the emotion laced into her voice, tangled about her soul and heart like razor-lined wire is enough to tell him it’s best not to.
For once in his life, the God that he builds himself up to be becomes a sinner at the feet of his enslaved priestess, made into the devil before his eyes. He fears, for her faith is now wraith, built up from all the love she has for Amara, the only thing in this world that she dares to love and trust more than him.
Their embrace pulls apart like siamese twins finally knowing what it’s like to be two very different bodies, except there is no tearing of skin or cries of verbal pain. All occurs within their hearts and emotions because she only see’s Amara as the monster that wanted to kill her, and the only escape from it is to heal the wounds from her lover’s skin.
Her faint whimperings become shouts to her ears when she dips a crowned skull towards the bloodied legs, trying to think of a way that she can mask the smell of death when it roars in her face. The white flame that pours from her lips reaches with readied fingers constructed of medicine and her affections, all the love she has in the world in a hope that in all the times that it has never failed her that this time it will do the same.
She works without thinking about how Amara is apologizing constantly, caught up in the fear that she’ll lose the one thing that she’s always known if she stops. She doesn’t think about how Hobgoblin tries to alert her that something is wrong, caught up in the cringe that wrinkles her features at the sight of the stab along Amara’s hip.
“What have you done to yourself?”
There’s no need for an answer when she doesn’t want one. More worries would added to the list, extending it like the flame when it pours forth from her lips like a god send that makes a thousand desperate attempts at rescue.



"Talk?"