The Lost Islands
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Falls

Force-claiming is not allowed here. This is a peaceful, neutral area meant for socialising.

we could be strangers in the night


YOUR LOVE IS ALWAYS DANGEROUS
and now i'm lost in us


Zevulun had never been raised to shy away from or feel embarrassment for his emotions. His father, Nephilim, had never once enforced archaic masculine roles on his son. In fact, Nephilim had always bent to the rule or been swayed by the advice of a mare. First there was Fly, then Amaranthe, and then when Mariael turned two he stepped aside to give her command of the Bay. Even when he’d been isolated from family, he’d depended on Oswin.

His son had been raised with this being a basic understanding of life. So, when Zevulun was six months old and he stumbled around the Bay, confused and frightened after losing his mother and twin sister, he’d ran into his father and Nephilim had told him: It’s okay to cry, son. And when Zevulun had been standing frozen in the cave he and Avalon always shared, her scent far gone by then, their six-month-old twin sons confused and waiting for an answer from him as to where their mother was, Maziel and Mariael had walked in to find him sobbing. Maziel told him it was okay, and they'll figure it out together.

When the strange crack had echoed around when he watched Mariael shove their thin, weak father to the ground, watched his white-and-gold body twitch and go far-too-still, he knew what it felt like to have his blood run cold. He was quickly pushing his children away, begging them not to look, trying to ignore the first cries he’d ever heard leave Mariael’s lips.

Just weeks ago, when Ysabel, the daughter he’d never known, told him his leaving the islands and subjected both her and her sweet mother to a painful life, he’d cried that night and wished over and over he could go back and change it all, but he’d still woken up in the Prairie. He’d still failed them, all those years ago. Them and every other unborn child and pregnant mare he’d disappeared on when he was too wrapped up in his own shit.

Life brought an endless flood of sorrows to Zevulun again and again, teaching him new lessons with each scar they left on his heart. He was never the stoic type. Almost anyone could read the emotions on him and, if you knew him, understand how deeply they honestly affected him. Because of these two things, her raw sorrow did not push him away or make him uncomfortable. Instead, he sympathized.

He also did not need to know what had happened to her. Little woes couldn’t strike a soul so deep. When those blue eyes met his and he saw the lingering depths of the pain that had it’s claws sunk into her heart, Zevulun knew it was bad enough. Her voice, too, betrayed more.

Zevulun didn’t say another word. He didn’t need to. The soft sand shifted under his weight as he slowly turned himself around and tucked down to his knees behind her, along her dark length. His weight rocked, shifted in the dirt to get himself as close to her as comfortably possible, where their wet skin could stick together and their shared warmth could combine and grow. Gently, slowly, he stretched his neck and layed it over her body. His wet, white hair fell down his neck and laid over her white-striped black skin. He inhaled and smelled her and the Falls and the cold mist in the air.

“I’ll be here as long as you need me to be.” He promised her the way he wished he could have promised all the others he had left behind.

lead of the prairie
nephilim x aubrey; cremello splash snowcap (ee Aa CrCr nSpl LpLp nPATN2)

image (c) pacificnoir@da


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