"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
come on in, we haven't slept for weeks; drink some of this, it'll put colour in your cheeks
A weak spring sunbeam filters down through the leaves, which shuffle and rearrange themselves in the slight breeze. Moisture condenses and rolls, bead-like, to the lowest twist of a twig before dropping onto the horse’s back below. It makes the softest sound as it lands on the dappled coat, absorbed instantly into a dark spot, blending with the other grey circles and stars. Her steely coat marks out her youth, a fact she is vaguely self-conscious about, but for the moment no-one is close enough in the dawn light to bring such a feeling to mind.
The light came first, early, the day eager to rush ahead towards the summer – but it did not bring any warmth with it, not for the first few hours. She blinks slowly as she wakes up cold and damp, shaking her low head and feeling another few droplets roll from her mane. Outside of the trees which had sheltered her the night before there is that starting sunlight and she stretches gently, raising her head towards it. Grass, pale but good, whilst under the copse there is scuffed dirt from the tread of hundreds of hooves; her sleeping place has been popular with the droves of homeless horses seeking a new start in the Field.
She remembers dimly the warmth and care of childhood awakenings, her mother’s side and the tall bodies of others around her – but she is grown now, taller than most, graceful enough in her movements in a way that her bulky frame does not imply. She slips forwards now out of the gently waving boughs and dripping water, between the trees and dewy cobwebs into the open meadow. Other early risers are congregated around the margins and she briefly considers – or tries to consider – approaching one of the nearer groups. But her confidence fails her and she lowers her head to crop the young grass in short, quick movements. She is like an empty page with a pen poised over it ready to write; with her few years, she doesn’t know what she hopes to achieve from coming here. A friend, perhaps, or a home? She hasn’t given it enough thought and this realisation startles her, driving her to graze more determinedly for a second as though this would give her purpose. The frightening thing is how vulnerable this makes her – to think that someone else here might suspect her future, or know what she is good for, when she herself does not.
In limbo, not knowing, she waits and eats and glances as the sun crawls into the sky and dries off the morning dew. A part of her wants to return to her hiding place and stay, looking out, without anyone looking in – but the trees are behind her now, and the future waits in front.
Magnus had spent so many years rising before the sun, awakening with the fog, and finding his way to the field. it was just part of who he was, and while it had started as something to help his kingdom grow, it had turned into a way for him to help people, and he had loved it for that. He had loved the opportunity to shepherd souls to their next home or next purpose; even if the meant a home that wasn’t with him. There was plenty of times where he had helped someone find a home that wasn’t the Gates. Because if it wasn’t going to suit them, and they were not going to be happy there, then what was the point of it all?
So it wasn't surprising that he had started his day here, the fog still settling around them, the morning sun weakly filtering around them. He loved this part of the day, when there was still possibilities everywhere. Even now, with their entire world ripped apart and the aftershocks still being felt, he could not deny that he felt a tinge of purpose in his heart. There were so many others that he could help. He just had to find them and then, perhaps a little bit more difficultly, find a home where he would be able to keep them safe.
The field was noticeably quieter than it had been in previous weeks, but there was a gray mare grazing in the distance. She looked so calm, so at peace, that Magnus had to wonder if she had been here when the lands had cracked. The truth of the matter was that he had been so wrapped up in his own reality that he had not stopped to think about what this would mean for new people coming to Beqanna.
He walked closer, “Hello there!” His smiled lifted crookedly in one corner. “How are you doing?”
They are an incredibly awkward combination. They very nearly repel everyone surrounding them – both for their ultimate closeness and their repulsing behaviors. Malfunction takes the lead, being the eldest and least impaired of the group. Aside from lack of color in the world and random seizures (though they always happen during thunderstorms), he is relatively normal. Most would see him as the backbone of their little bundle, although they are all hazardously tossed together. They are all the same color – that eerily familiar silver bay of their sire – and it makes them look even more abnormal then they already are.
Their youngest stays in the middle of their congregation. Wound is a pretty girl – mind-bogglingly so compared to her drooling, mute, and epileptic big brothers. She has long lashes which frame doe-like brown eyes set in a slender-cheeked face. Although she inwardly has a devilish concoction of issues, the only noticeable flaw on her body is that undeveloped right foreleg. A hoof ends the leg, but it’s grown too short to do much good. So she limps along, still fuzzy with newborn hair and incredibly tiny compared to her fully-grown brothers, in the midst of their protective huddle.
The early sun greets their faces like a kiss. Skid stretches his face closer to the rays, saliva dripping from his lips, and his eyes close for a moment. “Good God that sun feels good. It was too chilly last night.” His voice is a wet tenor, slippery with the excessive drool that endlessly falls from his mouth. Malfunction only nods briefly, eyes turning toward the Field. They need somewhere safe, especially for Wound. He’d noted from the very beginning of her birth (when a fly had landed on her slick hide and pinched her skin) that her nicks and cuts did not stop bleeding. Even now, her newborn blood flows quietly out of the tiny fly bite on her withers).
If she had a larger injury, Malfunction is sure she would bleed out until there is no blood left to pump her heart or work her brain.
The dappled mare seems like as good a place as any to start. Leading the pack of four, Malfunction makes his way over. He walks slowly, conscious of the multitude of stepping issues within their ranks (Wound’s undeveloped foreleg, Skid’s back legs fused together until his hocks, Smear’s clubfoot right leg), but when he stops, they all follow in ceasing their movements.
“Excuse me,” he starts. He pauses, unsure if this mare will run away like the countless others. “Do you know where we might find a safe place?”
come on in, we haven't slept for weeks; drink some of this, it'll put colour in your cheeks
The fog is losing its battle with the sunlight as she grazes, slinking away as if it knows the warmth and light will only grow in strength from now on. When it returns at dusk the grey mare will be gone and it is reluctant to give her up yet. It does all the same, drifting first to strongholds in hollows and shadows before being forced to flee completely. She begins now to relax, the gentle heat on her back a calming influence, until finally her consciousness blends into the field around her and she is just another part of the picture, a detail of the wider scene added by an unconcerned artist.
Such is her state of mind when the stallion approaches that she only realises his presence when he is close enough to begin speaking. The sound focusses her again, bringing her back to the present with a sudden dart towards anxiety. But his voice is a pleasant one and his greeting friendly: her full-tilt approach towards alarm is steadied, hovering at slight apprehension. She notices his smile, uneven but with a suggestion at honesty. “I’m well, tha-“ she begins, the nerves making her sound formal in a way that she instantly begins to feel conscious of. Her thanks go incomplete, however, as she looks over his shoulder at the approaching quartet.
Their progress is slow and that self-reflective part of her insists that staring is rude, but she finds she cannot help herself. They match and they do not, silvery in appearance and yet uneven in every other respect. Two of the tall ones and the little one move awkwardly, impaired by malformed limbs; she cannot see the saliva or the blood on the baby’s shoulder but some instinctive part of her smells it, senses the disease and the difficulty.
Questions replace the nerves, the anxiousness, the introspection – she wants to know why the little one is so small, how the four came together, what vengeful god they angered – and then they are close enough to see properly, to inspect. She cannot help herself but move forwards when she realises the middle child is just that – not dwarfed or impaired in growth (although her leg – Winter ducks her nose now that she is close to blow and sniff at that strange short leg, as if she can suss it out with a simple closer look) but a foal. She gives no though to whether the others will stop her, despite their defensive formation around the filly. On some instinct awakened she moves in, hearing from behind her their leader’s question. “Excuse me... Do you know where we might find a safe place?”
The sound stirs her once again and she turns her head, the rest of her reluctant to shift attention from the child. For a moment she stares because she does not know the answer – to his question, or the insurmountable problems the four must face. “No,” she says at length, and an idea strikes her. “But he might. He – I’m new, but maybe he knows?” And her eyes turn to Magnus imploringly, in the hope that he can help her to help these strange children.
Beqanna was full of the strange and the wild and the wonderful—and it had caused Magnus to see a great many things during his lifetimes here. He had seen everything from the unusual to the powerful to the downright impossible, but even he had not seen anything quiet like the group that now approached him and the mare. He gave her a quick smile at her seemingly stuff greeting before his attention was stolen to the four horses making their way to the group. Instantly, his scarred mouth dropped into a frown.
A safe place.
His stomach dropped at the mindset they must be in if they were approaching strangers in a voyage to find anywhere they could simply find a home—a place to be safe. He took a small step forward, unbidden, as he focused on them, gaze flicking from one to the next. Like the mare, he smelled the faint metallic tang of blood and his stomach churned, hoping that they had not been injured in the shaking of Beqanna.
At Spindlewinter’s prompting, he came back to his senses and nodded. “Ah, yes. As a matter of fact, I do.” He looked between the mare and the group. “My name is Magnus,” because he realized that he had not yet offered his name to any of them. “I actually live in a place called Tephra with a group of horses who have since made it their home. It is a sanctuary for the hurt and the healing—and a home for those who are looking for a place to rest.” It was everything Magnus had wanted, a place for him to help carve out the haven that he had always wanted. A place for him to protect those who were in need of such.
“I would be happy to show you all the way if you would like to see it.”
They’ve felt the stares before (the piercing, ripping sensation of eyes turning upon their misshapen bodies) and they decide to stare right back. For years they have turned their eyes down, away from the open mouths and unabashed surprise, but with the awakening of Beqanna come the awakening of themselves. So they keep their heads upright (all of them except for the tired, cold filly in the midst of their warmth and protection) and their eyes snatch onto the ones who stare. They dare them to say something, to retort about their slow movement or their drool freezing on their lips or their lumped skin.
Today is no different. The mare and the stallion (the buckskin they hadn’t noticed before, but they notice now) watch their approach with wide eyes and they raise their chins a touch higher. It is true; they are in an unfortunate circumstance. The cold and Wound’s hemophilia (something they have all noticed, but not named) and her newness have all provided a potentially deadly concoction and the three brothers know it. They are ever protective of their little sister for it is their love that binds them and it is their love that brings them out of the shadows they used to call home.
The mare ducks closer to their baby sister (her nose pokes and prods and huffs) and each muscle in all four of the boys’ tightens. Smear’s ears pin and his face becomes hard. He moves his neck toward her face in a snaking motion, bent on placing a solid nip wherever he could land if she didn’t heed his warnings. He’d say more – he’d say much, much more – if it weren’t for his tongue too big and his vocal chords too broken.
Malfunction shifts to hopefully block her path, his expression hard. Skid allows slippery words for the first time around other horses, “Back off.” It’s short and to the point, but also sloppily said and drowning in the overwhelming amount of saliva secreting in his mouth. They are all exceptionally close and when someone gets too close to their tired, petite, cold, hungry, and bleeding little sister there can be serious consequences.
Malfunction notes her worry, however. He isn’t a child (none of the boys are children, but Smear is perhaps the most adolescent) and he knows when someone is touching out of concern and not ill intent. So he moves aside, allowing the mare a closer look. When she turns his question to the stallion, Malfunction’s eyes raise to meet the buckskin’s. The stallion’s explanation of his home sounds perfect for what their looking for – someplace where they are not required to do work, but they can still be safe without looking over their shoulders – but Skid and Smear keep their defensive, harsh expressions regardless.
“Would we have to pull our weight in this Tephra?” He knows for certain he could, but as for the other three… Skid’s hind legs refrain from long travels and proper fighting skills, Smear’s clubfoot refrains from proper balance and his lack of speech wouldn’t be suitable for diplomacy, and Wound is still too young to do much of anything but eat, sleep, and play. Malfunction keeps his face aware but not guarded, although the other two boys are quite the opposite and Wound merely looks as though she might fall over at any moment.
They need a saving grace, and it might have just arrived.
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