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hriobzagelthewanderer · 2 years

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Recollected Reprisals

Tagging for referential purposes for @rxdhairxdsirxns, @melodiadraconis, and @shatteredwastes -

For some, dreams are an escape. For others, a snare, an anchor... but there are always those who blur that so-called line; individuals whose dreams refuse to stay within the lines, for what is it to dream but to escape the limits of the reality one finds one’s self in whilst awake? Is it any wonder that, at times, dreams can be more potent, more heady, than any lucid moment in life? More beautiful, more heartbreaking, more devastating and more enthralling than any mortal promise?

What, then, does one do when dreams escape even their own mercurial bounds? When they shift from mere taunting self-made entertainment into prophecy? When they force one to recollect not only things one has seen, but what one has long forgotten, by design or accident? When they show you not only your own mind’s torments and tantalizations, but that of others, in memories not your own?

For some, dreams can be more, even when it is the last thing wanted at times. Such is the case with Hriob Zagel, one who has warped not only his perception of self over time, but his perception of time itself in small, yet irreversible ways.

One, a crimson-haired queen and vicious beast, snared by his heart as she had snared him in turn, would dream of hauntingly familiar forests not in a dream of terror, as had visited her tremulous slumber before, but of heartbreak as she witnessed another side of the mystery she found herself enamored with.

Another, in a far-removed place and time, a pale huntress and devastator, poisoned by her one-time nemesis even in her supposed victory, is consumed by memories not her own, as she is slowly killed not by the opponent without, but by the consumed she had thought to add to her own strength.

To some, perhaps, a nightmare. But not all things are concrete, immutable, and what is torture to one may be salvation to another. What matters, in the end, is not only what we take from dreams, perhaps, but also what they take in turn...

A grey-cloaked child shivers in the rain, finally able to rest, if only for as long as the drops continued to fall from the skies, shrouding his presence as few other things could from his hunters. The scars on his face, still red and angry-looking on his pale skin, are wet, coated not only in rain, but with tears as well, salt tinging the waters running down his face ever-so-faintly. His sobs are silent, but there is a tinge of relief in his features, as if he knew he had needed to get this out, if only he had a chance.

__, __, __ Come down, won’t you get up off, get up off the roof?

A red-headed child finds himself in a small, worn, yet warm home after too many times caught in the Loop, found and brought in by a fair young woman of white hair and oddly-ribbed ears. He seems confused, hesitant, and yet something already tells him he is safe here, clinging to her skirts and finally given the first real Food - not foraged but baked with care - he could ever come to remember. There are tears in his eyes, but their flavor is different, as he buries himself into a hug in her arms.

You're scaring us and all of us, some of us love you, __, it's not much but there's proof-

Again, the child finds himself in the same woods, when he had finally gotten used to being in the woman’s care... and tears return again, shivering not with fear or cold, but fury and frustration. When the hunters return, spears of silver flying past him, he runs - into the fray, teeth grit in a wrathful rictus, a knife in hand to defy this fate that would not leave him be-

You crazy-assed cosmonaut, remember your virtue, Redemption lies plainly in truth-

The boy once again stumbles into the bread-scented home of the white-haired woman - his mother in all but fact now - weak and stained in blood, sporting fresh scars, but he does not hesitate to hug her possessively, desperately, as a lost sailor clings to driftwood, afraid that if he’d let go she’d be gone again, and he’d be back in the same forest once more.

Just humour us, __, __, come down, Won't you get up off, get up off the roof?

He vanished to the same forest, fighting to make it back Home more and more viciously each time, not noticing the worry growing in the eyes of the woman he called��‘Mutti’, nor the darkness growing in his own frame even as he started to grow taller, still thin and gangly no matter how much he ate, how tall he grew...

Loathe the way they light candles in Rome, But love the sweet air of the votives,

Every time, he came back taller, more bitter and withdrawn... and yet he came back all the same, every reunion met with tears from both, the embrace of child and parent, and promises being kept - no matter how hard it was at times to struggle and keep them.

Hurt and grieve but don't suffer alone, Engage with the pain as a motive,

Rain falls, as a sleepless, restless boy- no longer a child, if ever he truly was one, but slowly becoming a teenager- is confronted, then comforted by his mother, trying to get him to talk… It takes time, and much stubbornness, before the words start pouring out. Again, there are tears, of many different flavors blended together, before the woman promises the child something. The young man, composing himself, agrees.

Today of all days, see, How the most dangerous thing is to love-

Out on the outskirts of the village the two now called home, near a different kind of forest all-together, long quarterstaves in hand as she took the lead, instructing him in different motions and mock-sparring. He is knocked down often, yet rises again again. Smiles are shared, even as soreness and pain mount slowly but surely, for there is a goal in sight that he can reach…

How you will heal and you'll rise above-

…And yet, every time he feels safe, content, it seems, it cannot last. Time and time again he wakes in the same accursed forest. Every time, he must find his way back, no matter how many times he must suffer at the ends of the same spears. Every time breaks him a little more, even if his hands grip tightly to hold in the blood, to hold back the pain, to hold himself together until he can reach Home again-

__, __, __, jump now, You are absent of cause or excuse-

The teen is sleepless again, but with fervor, eyes with shadows beneath but light flickering within, as he pours over tome after tome, scroll after scroll, nibbling on a roll. Amongst the books are journals, memoirs, instructional manuals, all covered in runes and scripts on magic- a few written by hands both far older and yet somehow all too relatable, stories and experiences drawing him in and sharing their secrets, teaching and hinting at things that he could learn, if only he read a little longer, thought a little harder… if only one had the secret to escape, to demand and defy what refused to let him go. He studied on, as fascinated as desperate, yet for all the secrets gained, an answer was not amongst them.

So self-indulgent and self-referential, No audience could ever want you-

Even if as a child he was able to blend in with the few children of the nearby village on occasion, as he grew the distance grew further still, rumors and gossip raising a wall between him and those that could have been peers, friends… even if he wanted to, despite not truly wanting to be alone, the boy found it easier to just stay separate, do his own things… and so he grew more distant still.

You crave the applause yet hate the attention, Then miss it, your act is a ruse-

Time and time again the Forest takes him, time and time again he fights, more and more like a beast for the Hunters, even as he learns tactics, strategies, self-defense, even the beginnings of magic to try and stay alive, it doesn’t always work, often has him try again and again to get home, earning more and more scars as he struggles… old doubts starting to return despite everything he’s learned…

It is empty, __, so end it all now, It's a pointless resistance for you-

The unruly teen, on his own, steals a bottle from a pub when no one was looking… and nauseously, unsteadily wobbles to his home, into a long argument that ends in tears when his mother finally catches him… tears that are addressed in the morning, when the headaches return in full force and his stomach refuses to remain steady, but his words have left their mark, as have hers.

__, __, just put down the bottle, Don't listen to what you've consumed-

The young man - no longer able to be confused for the child he once was, in appearance or countenance - throws himself into his self-training, rage and desperation hand-in-hand, knowing he is not yet ready to face the Hunters, may never be if the whispers in the back of his head continue… and yet even as thoughts of surrender float to the surface, they only boil away in the bitter, spiteful fury they spark, urging him further on-

It's chaos, confusion and wholly unworthy, Of feeding and it's wholly untrue-

Another return to the misty, verdant personal hell takes weeks to escape, as he nearly breaks, constantly struggling not only to escape, but struggling against intrusive, defeatist thoughts at the worst possible times, earning yet more scars and nightmares, even as the Hunters finally start to feel the bite of the ‘fangs’ of their quarry, no longer facing easy prey as they had years ago-

You may feel no purpose nor a point for existing, It's all just conjecture and gloom-

When, at long last he finally returns, after months of unintentional detours and false-starts, the Forest continuing to pull at him even as he keeps slipping its grasp, he is met by heated words, and then shaking arms and desperate tears, meeting them in kind, words pouring forth shaky admissions of the enemies within even as he tried to face those without-

And there may not be meaning, so find one and seize it, Do not waste yourself on this roof-

The forest does not claim him again, not yet, not so soon, but instead the youth - not yet a man, however much he feels he has to be - leaves Home, after many more tears and promises are made, and sets out on his own. There is uncertainty, but there is also a need for answers, to find a solution. To find, perhaps, himself.

You want the acclaim, the mother of mothers It's not worth it, __-

He wandered, through forests and deserts, finding people and more and more questions, but not yet answers. Thriving in the verdant lands, struggling in those where greenery was all but absent, he slowly began to understand his connection to Life, strengthening it.

More poignant than fame or the taste of another- Don't listen, __-

He found attachments, discovered those he found himself longing for, but ultimately never fitting with, and leaving of his own accord, before anything could ever come of it. Time and time again, until the embers of longing and need were kept dim and cool, though never did they fully go out.

But be real and just jump, you dense motherfucker- You're worth more, __-

He discovered more about himself, talents with magic and craftsmanship, reigning in his emotions as best he could, learning to meditate, to ponder, to put his mind to practical activities instead of wallowing randomly in darker thoughts, and reigning in the storms and clouds that had often followed him in turn.

You will not be more than a rat in the gutter- So much more than a rat-

Still, the Forest did not let him wander freely, and the Hunters found him again… only now he is not Prey, not anymore than a savage grizzly is prey to a few cunning foxes. Finally, he has the Mastery, the Command over himself and the Power to fight back and win… and yet his first victory rings hollow, somehow… all he has done, it seems, is strike down a few lowly goblins, even if the spears they held are collected before the young man continues on.

You want my opinion, my opinion you've got- No one asked your opinion-

He still does not feel fully confident, always ever-vigilant in the back of his head, perhaps too much so, and so he finds new ways to apply himself. His practice with his precious staff has expanded into all sorts of training and exercise, pushing his own limits, trying to drive out the doubts that linger still. The mind does not succumb so easily, but the body grows and hardens all the same with every punch, lunge, step, and strain.

You asked for my counsel, I gave you my thoughts- No one asked for your thoughts-

On occasion, he finds himself in the Forest again all the same, and begins to notice that he is not the only one pulled into it. New purpose fills him, as he finds other wanderers brought in by happenstance or bad luck, defending them from the Would-Be-Hunters, tending their wounds as best he can and collecting more of the accursed spears off the cooling bodies of the predators as he ends them.

Be done with this now and j g u e m t p off the roof-

His issues, he grows accustomed to, his scars fade but never vanish, and the wounds upon his heart, his psyche lessen but never leave. And yet, the more he travels, the more he finds those who, regardless of how much or how little they have suffered, still need help… and so, clumsily at first, but with more tact and careful consideration each time, the Wanderer begins a legacy of his own, for the wounds of others are easier for him to mend than his own.

Can you hear me, __? I'm talking to you-

He ran, he walked, he trod, he traveled. Where one forest ended, another began, seamlessly at first… but before long he was able to finally tell, to notice when he had crossed the boundaries between worlds. Now, at long last, he could notice the pull, and ignore it if he chose… eventually, more would be revealed, and what once was random happenstance or cruel fate became the key to countless worlds, endless possibilities…

Throw yourself into the unknown, With pace and a fury defiant-

The Journey Continued, and somewhere, somehow, along the line, the boy, who had become a teen, had grown into a man. Not out of conquest, or mere height and build, but as the continual wrenching of experience changed him. Every memory he made acted as water over a rock, just as every scar he had earned was flame upon an ingot. He had forged himself out from his own hell, and now he had polished himself from rough, fickle sharpness into something honed, purposeful, gleaming, to be wielded by his own will towards a brighter future.

Clothe yourself in beauty untold, And see life as a means to a triumph-

The vision, the dream, the memories, all start to fade. The Journey has both ended, and only begun. Only now, at the end, is the man before you clearly the one you may have come to know, be it a visage you find attractive or repulsive. A tall, cloaked figure - not yet towering but still far more heavily built than the gangly teen from before, no longer ruled by bitterness so much as driven to defy and overcome it.

A survivor, self-made, forged and tempered. Not perfect, not unmarred, but far from broken.

#ic #rxdhairxdsirxns #shatteredwastes #The Warped Pale Reflection #Written to Achilles Come Down by Gang of Youths #ReadMored for Length #ReadMored for potentially triggering content and themes #melodiadraconis #Readmore'd for length #the wheel of fortune; a lost child #the draconic adoptive parent #ic drabbles #your own personal typhon

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