#ribbonbeast

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Together sit two, wrapped in thread and ribbon, Flaring wings and gentle eyes, claws to tear, Basking in the twilight shadow and mist, Awaiting the fall of night to day.

Swatting her tail, the ribbonbeast stretches, Lazy in her movement, in her words, ‘You know the best places to lay.’ She says, A bed of flowers crushed to her fur.

‘I know the places you would like.’ says her sister, Detangling the thread that has wound their paw, And their sister tilts her head, curious as ever. It is true, her sister knows much of her, Truer still that they know more than she does.

Yet, a challenge is presented, and she grins. ‘How would you know of me?’ asks the ribbonbeast, And her sister, meek despite the size of their paws, Replies with a confidence she had not seen from them, Not for a very long time.

‘I have known you before you were made,’ They tell her, ‘I would know you in the dark, know you were you not you, You are part of me, and I, part of you; How could I not Know my heart, where it beats?’ the threadbeast replies.

It is true, she knows, her sister knows her like a mirror Knows what it reflects, like the moon knows the sky, But she thinks back to days past, and she speaks, ‘You have not always treated me like you know me.’

This, as well, is true, and there the threadbeast winces, As if struck by a snake, curling in on themself, with a frown. ‘No,’ They agree, ‘I have not - Were I able to take back those years, Where I treated you like a stranger, like an enemy, I would.’

‘It was a tragedy,’ Her sister told them, ‘It ached, worse still, I thought you hated me. Were you to take it back, though, I think perhaps we would not be the same.’ She assures them, Though the words seem to soothe nothing.

Claws digging into earth, and ears pinned back flat, Nose crinkled, and head low, the threadbeast speaks again, Voice quivering and wet, ‘I would trade that, I think, My own solace in your heart, for peace in your past.’

Their paws cover their face, ‘It was unfair, of me; You were a child, My heart made whole, and I could not see it, too blinded by my Own need to destroy myself - Selfish, I was.’ Their sister watched, and soon, she lay against the flowers, Wings stretching as she stared at her sister.

The stains of color bled against her fur, and she reached out, Claws retracted as she paws aimlessly at her sister’s shoulder, ‘But, weren’t you a child too?’ She asks, ‘Hurt, and scared? Who would not hate their own heart, staring when they are small?’

Children, plural, though often forgotten - One grows up too fast When they have a soul carrying burdens untold, Not a child anymore, not whole, no matter how downy their wings; Children, the both of them, with soft claws and spots on their hide.

the only currently colored images of the threadbeast and ribbonbeast i have are if they were monsters in delicious in dungeon 😭 tbf it was really funny (also! sad.) how my sister explained it.

For beasts of riddles, simplicity was favored, And there was nothing more simple, Than the quick utterance of, ‘What the fuck?’ Said with passion, their eyes narrowing,

The threadbeast stared cross the river, As if it held a secret, or an answer, Like the stream would bring forth A new chance, or a redo, Or maybe just take this knowledge away, And they uttered the words again.

And again. And again… And their sister stared as well, Horror on her face just the same. Her nose crinkled, and her ears low, She joined their chanting, Over and over, Until it felt like they had communicated An entire sonnet with those three words.

‘This is disgusting.’ The ribbonbeast said, Drawing into herself, wings wrapping Around her like a protective shroud. ‘This is horrible.’ She added, As her tail swished angrily.

‘What the fuck?!’ The threadbeast settled on, Claws scraping the ground as they paced, Suddenly needing to move, Before they quite literally died.

Many things could be brought to them, Most commonly riddles, Adventurers, trails, heartaches, But the worst brought to them was always, Always, always, always, Knowledge.

‘I feel sick.’ The ribbonbeast told her sister, ‘I do, too.’ Her sister said, ‘I don’t know what to do.’ ‘Should we kill them?’ Their sister asked, ‘Maybe? Would it help?’ She replied. ‘I’m not sure. I think they come back.’

There is no way to rid oneself, Not completely, of the one that bore you, Nor the one that attaches itself, To such a creature.

Perhaps once it could have been as the beasts, Bound in something, and untangling, But it chose instead to twist itself, unseemly, Blighted and bastardized, Into a monster even those of riddles could not name.

For what did you name something like this? Perverted and cruel, delighting in misery, Bloated and vile, a corpse floating in water, Leaving behind residue on all it touched?

There was nothing to name it. There was nothing to do. ‘I think we should leave.’ The threadbeast said, ‘Is it trying to look like me?’ Their sister asked. ‘I think so.’ They looked at the thing - Corpse?

Maybe it was once something. Maybe it could have been. Maybe it never was.

Twisted and strange, reaching and touching, Trying to create, and force, and be, The threadbeast wondered if it was malicious, Or if it was so devoid of thought, It could not see past its own hedonism, Taking and claiming no matter who it hurt. Which was better? Which was worse?