ORIGIN

Exhaustion was finally outweighing the feverish anxiety that drove the starving hybrid to keep pushing her body to the limit. Haunted by a vicious, terrible meeting with her worst nightmares-- the shadow beast, her father's corpse stealing, her sister at the hooves of Hasira-- and at the very top of the list, the fact that she wasn't her families' darling shining star anymore. She was a husk, a shell, unsure if she was alive or if that even mattered. It was too much, as the child curled up in a small pile of rubble, inside of a building just outside of the throne room.

As it was, the noodle was finding it harder and harder to stay awake. For one thing, her thoughts were just dreadful, awful things. For another, maybe if she fell asleep she could just escape it all. The tiny hybrid was broken and battered, and any escape had to be a blessing. The only problem with falling asleep was that little Kutu thought her nightmares would chase her there-- or worse, she'd simply die. For all the misery in the world, the tiny hybrid didn't want to die, even to this day.

After a long hour of struggling with her body and mind, the fisher hybrid's ears twitched at a noise and she delve in on herself, curling up tightly around her body, wings straining to cover her body. Even thinking about moving her one wing caused agonizing pain, and the child made a silent groan, gritting her teeth. Her body started to tremble, shuttering from the impeding panic attack. She knew she was going to die here, whether it was now or later. How much longer could she keep fighting it?

Tears built up in the corners of her eyes as she wanted to toss and turn in her pile of garbage and stone, too nervous to even shift a little bit. Her form was uncomfortable, a torture combined with the great ache of her wing, and she shut her eyes and tried to block out the world and her own thoughts. She wanted to go numb, push herself out of very existence.

The noodle did not want to die, no, but everything would be so much easier if she just never existed in the first place. It wasn't like anyone cared about her anyway. They all had forgotten her, left her to rot in a place where no one would ever let her shine again. A caged bird, a trapped animal, starving and wasting away to nothingness:

She was a dying star.

Ashtoreth only knew she existed because she knew not existing would be so much simpler.

Safe. One of them is safe. It is all that matters, now. He saved one. It doesn't balance out the loss, and it doesn't make him feel any better, not like it should, what if they find her anyway, she'll beg for death too, but it is all he has left.

He can't remember his name.

He was looking for someone. Someone important.

Two? Three? As many as the stars laughing at him from the sky?

Black wings and white feathers. He remembers that, clings to it like a man adrift in the ocean, lost on the horizon line without land in sight. He is nothing, without a name or a face, but he can still look for them. But you wo͍̭̭ņ̝͈'̣̘͈͙̱̟̪͢t̻̰͇͉̱ find them. He won't, he won't, he won't. He thought he saw the feathers, but it was only the tricks of the shine, of the doe who spoke poison into his brain and helped it trickle down his throat, vomit from his gem until he couldn't stand, sliding in bile and rot.

It is a mockery, they are all laughing, staring, that he is here in the first place, driven by a demon into the den of angels. But he would never blame them - he is nothing but a dying, feeble dream. There is a loop of music in his head, voiceless and unending, that lulls him to sleep at night, but it is wearing thin, sharp highs and low dips carving up his head into neat squares. Soon it will roll to the floor, splinter into beautiful, shining quartz, and he will be gone.

Why is he here?

The gelding stops his wandering, comes to a halt surrounded by leaning buildings and fallen walls. He was here, before. Why now? The guardian and the messenger. He could protect them, if he was strong, but he is weak, weak, weak, and oil slicks his burns, masks the stench of infected flesh. He should leave. Go back to the tunnel.

He had wanted to go to sleep.

But the demon had spoken in fire and daggers, and led him here. Why?

He slumps to the cool floor, fever-sweat skin sticking to dust and rock. Sleep.

His head hurts.

Ashtoreth's shriveled, curled up form was striken by another noise, a louder, sharper thump that made her pile of rubble shake. The once child flinched, her feathers puffing up as though they could hide the fact she was a pile of bones with sagging skin. Over and over, her mind screamed to look, to face the danger, to understand it. The hybrid hissed back, shoving against the wall of fear that told her to run and panic. She would not look, she would not move, she would lay here until it went away. Until sleep claimed her. She didn't want to see what had made the noise.

A whisper of starlight singing of curiosity delved between the wall of terror and the cracks her determination broke back. If I ignore it-- just a peek won't hurt-- run, run, run, run. It will go away if I just stay still-- what if it's not them-- get out GET OUT GET OUT I DON'T WANT TO DIE. What if it's nothing at all, Ashtoreth, just looking won't hurt, you don't even have to move. The curiosity won out, a childish remain of her youth, and she cracked an eye open.

A battered, bloody mess.

She remembered the bloody mess. She had fought against the damaged, broken memory of the gelding time and time again. Every part of her didn't want to accept the idea that he could be here, could be so hurt, could be so loyal to Kings-- who hurt him, who hurt him, he's not real, he can't be real, he doesn't deserve this.

The hybrid was too afraid and broken to move, but a song sang through the air and she felt like she was hundreds of miles away. Her breath caught as she heard his song in the air, distorted and broken, tears flooding her eyes, blotting out her vision. The oxygen was gone from the air and she tried so hard to stay together, to be quiet and unnoticed, but her lungs refused. Her heart pounded in her ears as she gasped, air wheezing into her chest and then slipping out like water through her paws.

She couldn't breath, couldn't think, the noise was getting too loud, deafening around her-- it was loud, violent, crashing through the air and making the ground vibrate under her paws. No, wait, this isn't real, she thought, I'm doing this. It's me. It's me. I'm doing this but I... This isn't me. The fisher hybrid was shaking, gasping for breath, tears stinging her eyes. Her paws were too big, too green, too thin-- too thin-- too thin-- this wasn't right. She wasn't supposed to be alive; she didn't want to die but this wasn't living.

Ashtoreth watched as her body looked towards the shell of Eosphoros. She watched, helplessly, as she slipped forward and knocked over a bunch of rubble. Something hit her wing, her bad wing, I'll never fly again, but the pain didn't bring her back. It wasn't strong enough, the pain was just a reminder that she was alive when she shouldn't even exist.

Her body slumped on to flat, solid ground, so close to Eosphoros; but she was miles away. What had happened to them? Why couldn't her starlight reach him like it had so easily in her youth? Why couldn't she call to him with the words only they once knew. Why... Why didn't he look at her, call to her, sing that song. Why couldn't he fix her?

The world swam above, cold ground cradling his fever-stricken form. The stars turned to fish, darting about their watery dome high above, scales glinting, fins spread wide like wings. Black and blue mix together, and the ink staining the ground trails up to the creases in his lips, dehydration sucking the shape from his cheeks. Acid kisses his throat, and he closes his eyes to watch the stars again, pinpricks of bright light against void. The song in his head calms down, drums soft and rhythmic. Black wings and white intertwine, dance around each other, swift and elegant. It is beautiful.

But this is not his.

Gray eyes roll back open, a harsh breath rattling his chest. Take stock. He had been good at that - had he? - in the tunnels, marking off every nook and cranny he searched. He remembered sleeping in the cold tunnel for long weeks, freezing, hoping for them - who were they he should know he has to - to come back. He doesn't know who they are - were - but he loves them, enough to make him shudder, to make it burn a hole through his heart, sharp thorns looping around veins, flaming daggers sinking into his throat.

Something hits the ground enough to make it tremble - rocks? hooves? - and he twitches, ears pinning back in panic, tail twitching. It could be the doe, with her venom and her fangs in his brain. He tried to move, gaze flickering wildly, head inching this way and that. Blearily, something came into view; something small and brown and white feathers and he can't do this again he just wants them back he doesn't want to be mocked like this he doesn't want to remember gentle paws braiding his mane or singing for her because he can't.

He can't do anything, anymore.

Her.

It looks like her.

And maybe, now, he's too tired to care if she's not really here, because he just wants to stop hurting and bleeding and the song buzzes in his throat like an angry hornet. Silver eyes pinned onto her, bleary and sad. He tried to smile, but only let out a soft whine, a thin leg twitching towards her, close enough to move back and forth - back and forth - waving - hello.

An inverse of carnivore and herbivore, each beaten by their opposites, each destroyed until they looked so strikingly different in their pain. The burns, the breaks-- but they shared so many similarities, didn't they? The ribs, the hallow eyes and lost voices, the uneven, gasping breath that almost made up for what breathing they didn't have but... Teeth like daggers, claws, so green, like what a herbivore is supposed to eat, she was their food now, the fodder for pain and pleasure and she felt so unreal until that hoof that should have struck her, broke her, kicked her away and snapped her into pieces spoke in a way that only Eosphoros could. The language they both sang without words, if only because her voice had never been real and his ears had been broken long before the pain of their all too visible wounds had ever been birthed upon their skin.

And the world around them broke out in joy, ringing with words that perhaps had once belonged to Eosphoros but now they sang like angels, cooing and calling to the gelding and the hybrid. "Oh, the stars above shine, but what of mine? How will I master such a glorious aster?" And despite herself the fisher lammergeier smiled, still feeling detached from what she was seeing because how could it be real, how could it be Eosphoros, her loyal steed, so valiant and true? The notes played about her, more in tune perhaps that when Eos had first sang them but he was deaf, of course, he couldn't hear her, so it was more like watching a movie-- yes, watching some scene take place with background music that neither actor could really hear. It wasn't real, but the noodle moved ever closer, raising one good wing in a wave, a paw stretching out to touch the hoof.

"Alright, little one? Didn't look like much fun." Tears pricked at the hybrid's eyes as she felt the hard keratin in her paw as though she was holding it in her own, even though she was watching some other broken, mangled carnivore do all this because-- no, if it was real, Eos wouldn't be burned and destroyed, nor would be be so quiet. The air wouldn't sing with voices that weren't quite his, he would have his own words. ""Little bird is alright. Tried to take flight?" Yet the fisher hybrid beamed at the horse, wetness soaking into her cheeks, as the words continued to prance about them, delightful, joyful. She couldn't hold them back if she tried, they were too close to her memories, to tender to her heart.

The words were growing softer, for all of their persistence, as the noodle moved in to nestle under the horse's leg. "Up, up, up! Birds of a feather flock together, but birds of the herd stay safe, not stirred!" This was safety-- but it was wrong, so wrong, the hooves were for smashing, crushing, breaking her. She did not deserve the touch of a herbivore, and Kutu could not help but think that she had finally lost it. None of this was real, her mind was fooling her, perhaps... Trying to protect her. The thought was hardly comforting, but as the words sang to her, she found it harder and harder to stay awake. Her energy was being drained, tugged right out of her, and between that and the gentle words of a silver steed from so long ago, she couldn't fight any of it anymore. Her bleary eyes blinked at the equine, trembling as she slowly started to understand that the warmth of his thin, frail body, felt too real, and though she wanted to scream she knew there was no point.

"Tiny friend flies high and far, as high as the ceiling, covered in stars!"

Something vibrated in the air, tickling at his ears without sound, and he twitched, pelt shuddering, confusion clearing his gaze. Something's coming is it the doe? She's here to play again don't listen to her she only wants to help. Help. Help. She only wants to help. What a brave - brave - you're so b̳̪̱͚̳r͓̪͖a̗͚̞̬v̯̜̞̜e̩̣̹͡.̷͎̙̗̙ Silver eyes clenched shut, stars clouding his vision - he just wanted to see her, he needed to see her, even if she wasn't really there like the last times and she mocked him with white feathers and black wings and soft paws and singing, you used to let all this trapped music in his brain out but he can't, can't get around the lump in his throat that tells him not to open his eyes because she'll be

gone

and he'll be back in the dark again, the dark so deep and black and calm and quiet that it ate his name and his face and his music and his family, his family, he needs to delve inside it and get them back.

He opens his eyes.

She's still there.

A soft, surprised whine trembled from his mouth, and tears bit at his face, slid down it and pooled on the floor, irritated blistered wounds and mixed strangely with blood, like oil that swiftly dissipated. Don't blink d͜ͅo̼̯ņ͈͍̟̗͈͔̟'t̶ ̠͉̟̞̦̺̀b̡̩͖͖̠̩̠̭l̩͉͕̹̞͔͢i҉̖n͇͉k̘̲̠̹̭ͅ don't blink please don't g̩̫o ̨̗̥d͎o̘̤̫n҉͓̣'̭t ̫̤̜g̛̰̳͍͉̩̪o̷̼̝̯̬̜͕̞ ͙̤͘c̸̻̮̤̼ơ̞me̳̙̥͎͡ ͇ba̴̗c͖̱̗̫̲̼̦k.̙̬̟̘͍ He strains not to blink, staring in awe at just how real She looks, her of the nameless and voiceless white feathers, a strange symphony with the sharp melodies of the black wings. It lulled him to sleep, lulled him to sleep, lulled him to sleep in the dark for weeks, and he feels a smile pull at his face, crease it, stretch the skin of his neck, a trickle of blood warming his coat.

He wishes, for once, he could hear, could speak, could do anything but overturn his hoof, feel her soft fur on his destroyed skin.

Ḭ͜ ̭r̸̠̱e̛̮m͎̦̤e͎̤̣̟̙̻͡m̮̲͕b̡̦͚̻͉̤̝ẹ̳r̸̤̤ ̻̺̲͜y̪͕o̟̻͉̻͔u.͖͎̫

He remembers braids in his mane, screaming when the first of them had rotted out, carrying it with him like a pledge until it had disintegrated into molded dust. He'd stared, empty, when the second had fallen apart. The third still lay near the entrance to his tunnel, burnt away, attached to a chunk of flesh. He went back to it, once, but he had to look away, vomited the contents of his stomach - bile, bile, bile, he coughs at the memory.

I remember you.

Gentle, gentle, gentle paws on his mane, he had sung to her. Sung. Sing. Can he sing? The song in his head slows down, and for once, he can make out words in place of beating wings. Can he sing can you sing poison? Can you sing?

Can you sing?

He can try.

"Hush... now... no... tears," he gasps out, smile tight, teeth yellowed and decayed. The words are soft, follow a broken melody.

He hasn't spoken in four months.

"Though it may be... years... don't be b-blue," the gelding sighed, a racking cough splattering blood onto the ground between them. "Don't b-be blue."

"I remember you."

In response, the damage horse closed his eyes, but she didn't care. Perhaps he would fall asleep, letting her stay there, but then those silver pools flashed and frightened she shrunk into the crook of his leg, beady eyes frightened of what would happen now that she had touched him. His leg shifted, a whine escaping his lips. The stench of blood does nothing to make her feel more real, only more like she's dreaming as she watches a fresh wound fester and drip from oversaturation, a pain in her chest.

The song was coming to the point of dying as the horse's chest heaved and his jaws parted in a sputtering cough, words coming from his lungs in such a soft, delicate, familiar tune. She shook at the words, her dark gaze lost in the silver starlight of his face, knowing she had never heard him sing these lines. The more her ears strained to hear his words, no matter how distant she was, the more she realized.

He must have been in so much pain. She knew pain once, back before it had become too much. If he was real, then she had to try to do something. Anything. She pressed her nose to the still hot, feverish wounds and tried not to gag at the puss and blood that oozed. Forcing herself, she licked gently at his wounds, softly, trying to comfort. Slowly. His words were delicate, fragile in her ears, but there was nothing she could do besides try and groom his wounds. She didn't even know if it was helpful, but after weeks without meat the taste of blood made her stomach squirm... Whether that was a good thing or not, she hadn't the attention to give to it.

Her mind instead raced with the thoughts that made tears prick at her eyes. Eosphoros was alive. Alive, half dead, breathing, but broken... Just like her. He didn't deserve this. Everything in the world spat at her that she deserved this because she was a carnivore, but Eos was one of them. It wasn't fair. How had they ended up in this hell together?

Her, her, her, it wasn't her but it was, the best imitation of what he could never have. He'd take what he could get, a reprieve from the shed fangs stuck in his head, let the song die off on his tongue, watched the vision with hungry eyes. She moved back, soft fur against his stick-thin leg, and he whined, ears flicking, wide eyes flickering from her form, erratic movements making the silhouette warp. It couldn't be her, not her, tricked again, not strong and then there's something edging closer, a dry nose edging at his chest, something soft and gentle on his wounds. A whimper and he stills, moves his head closer, lets it sink to the side, curls around her gently, something precious to protect. Precious. Precious.

She is strong.

He nuzzles her, lips at unbroken skin, the gemstone in the center of his chest sparking like a dying battery. Gold and black intertwine, oil overtaking sunlight, spilling onto the floor, and he just wants her to be alright, alright, alright, wants her to stay, even if she's not real. He'll take the dream, the imagined warmth. He curls closer, surrounds her with destroyed neck and untouched, oblong face, tries another smile, open-mouthed panting as the dark creeps closer. It creeps up her legs gently, bathes wounds in cool shadow, hides, hides, hides until the doe couldn't find her if it tried, and she is Safe. He won't fail again, hot breath blowing over tattered wings.

Something in him screams that the void has eaten him whole, given him a false companion in return.

He relaxes against the theory, lets his eyes slip shut, head moving to angle a long, tapered ear against Her chest, listen to a heartbeat that could be his own, a sad echo. It doesn't matter, now. All he wants is here, here, here, and he won't let anyone take her away again. Safe and sound sound sound you better sing and be so strong! You're so strong! Sing, you're a poison, sh̰͈͙̠̞̭̝e̟̪'ll̯̝̦̝̰͇͞ ̳͍̹̘̻͚́d̞̣i̶̫̼̯e ̹̙̫̟a̦̖̱̠̕g̱͔̭̦͙͘a̵͖̮̬͖in and you'll crawl back to your little prison, isn't that right? Ư͙̝͔̱͍̦͎s̮̞̰̘͉̥̱e̛̫̱̬̭͓͚̞l̼̖̟̩̤͖͘es̥͕s̲͖̱̘̫.̹̰̩̗͕

He's a tumor in a healthy system, waiting to be scooped out, disgustingly noticeable among the angels, but he can keep, keep, keep this. It is all he has.

The blood hit her stomach, the thin, shriveled organ convulsing from the sensation of having something inside. She was a dead thing, something that should not eat, and despite her pressing urgency to lick the wounds clean, her body revolved. He whined, his muzzle aside hers, his breath stiring on her fur and feathers. Hot, feverish. She tries to hold back a cough and is reminded of how raw her throat is when the acidic blood is lurched back to her mouth. The dying star gagged on the taste, for a moment her mind panicking: Drowning, I'm drowning-- but no. She is dead. The dead don't need to breathe.

And she continues, her tongue on his damaged body, and his lips mouth over her fur, a faint spark of light that hurts. After the light, a gentle darkness, like a blanket, wraps around them and for a brief moment, there is finally peace in her afterlife. If she is truly dead, and he is with her in her hell, there is a place of safety among the pair of them. Ashtoreth closes her eyes, his whole face taking her frail, thin body. She lets her toes tangle in a mess of fur, brushing the mane away in the shadows.

Without words, she knows that he has made her safe. He still loves her-- and there is such peace in the fact that they are together. She doesn't want him to hurt anymore, but in the safety of darkness, perhaps they can find a moment of respite together.

The mustelid touches her nose to his face, exhaling slowly, letting her breath stir with his own. I am so sorry, she tells him with gentle touches, soft pads on velvet cheeks. For a moment, everything is good. Already, she thinks, I am sorry for when this must end. The Prince will return and she knows it, he will come and snatch them apart, break her and do what he wants with him. Some day they might be enemies.

Ashtoreth hopes it never comes to that.