ran my wandering mind away, Errant

[Crito]

It takes him almost a week to recuperate from his trek to the Jungle. He holes up in all of his old spots, nestles deep within the cavernous mountains as winter begins the slow process of winding down. He relishes the cold that manages to seep through crevices in the rock. Every cool draft of air on his skin is a balm to his weary soul. The lands between his wintry home and the Amazons (not to mention the ‘Zons themselves) had been substantially warmer - even in the throes of winter - and by the time he had skirted the edge of the Falls kingdom, he was practically jogging his way home. The trip had cemented his decision all those years ago to forgo his birth kingdom for the Tundra. But the journey has not been without consequences. Although Errant has lessened the aching of his bones, has soothed the stiffness of his joints, the fact remains that Crito is still older. It takes him far longer to recover. While he rests his body, though, his mind continues to work on. He thinks of the past (because it feels nearer than ever to him, having been in close proximity to his sister so recently). He remembers the day he first came to the Brotherhood, remembers how his blood brother had been the first to greet him. Errant had thought he might gain an audience with their father, a long-living hope in Crito’s chest, but Arcteryx had vanished shortly after without a meeting ever taking place. It has always been a sore spot in his otherwise complacent life. It has been enough to simply exist, to feel the cool sting of arctic air on his hide, to taste the bitter lichen and watch the borealis light up the northern sky. He has never asked for much (never shot for the stars, never wished for the moon) but this is a matter he would have liked settled. It’s heavy on his mind while he rests. After watching the shadows move across the walls of various caves for seven sunrises, Crito sets out. Spring is still crisp in the way the sparse grass feels under his feet. It is different here, of course, slower to start. But he can hear the keening of a rough-legged hawk in the near distance and knows the warmth is sure to follow. New life, he thinks, smiling for the first time at the thought. He is the creator of a small fraction of it. Somewhere deep in the Jungle, he has left his legacy. Its mother had promised to send it northward if it turns out to be a male – new blood for his kingdom. If it’s a female…he’s not sure he will ever meet her. His bones had protested enough on this last trip, he’s doubtful he has another one in him. But that new confidence rises within him – it will be a son and he will have done the Tundra proud. His storm grey eyes lift when he sees a figure framed by the mountains. Errant, he realizes as he draws closer, just the man I want to see. There are issues he wants to discuss with his king, sure, but also more personal matters. He smiles grows when he moves up besides the black stallion. “Brother,” the roan says by way of greeting, noting that the scars adorning the magician have faded considerably. It’s a curiosity, but he has more pressing matters to address for now. “Hurricane and I have returned from the Jungle. Scorch sends her regards and agrees to the alliance.” He tilts his head towards Errant, revealing the still healing wound the fire-queen left on his face. “Her method of diplomacy still leaves much to be desired.” Crito shakes his head at the recent memory; some things never change. When he raises his gaze again, it turns more critically on his brother. “And how are you, speaking of changes? We haven’t spoken in some time.” ( c r i t o )

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[Errant]

when my time comes around lay me gently in the cold dark earth Time passes slowly for Errant, slower than is natural anyway. He has a single grey hair on his muzzle, a fantastic feat for a horse nearing thirty. He is in his prime, and looks no older than seven. It is Crito that makes him feel old. The roan stallion is his years-younger brother, and while Errant hadn’t seen him grow the way he’d witnessed Roark, Tivona, Alecto, and Rharian grow, it is still something he knows. Scorch, with her bare skin and flaming hide has always seemed ageless as well. It’s just Crito, with his creaking bones and cheerful smile, who reminds Errant of the time that is passing. When Crito approaches him, quite some time after they’vereturned from the Jungle, Errant looks up. His expression isn’t quite eager – he’s too reserved for that – but he is clearly pleased to see his sibling. “Crito,” he replies, smiling slightly. His expression sours somewhat at the wound on Crito’s face, but they are both accustomed to Scorch by now, and a brotherly lecture wouldn’t change her behavior. “I’m glad that’s settled, then.” He says, nodding and this time he does look pleased. “Now we just have to wait to hear back from the Falls.” He doesn’t expect much more – they’ve never been an especially chatty pair – so when Crito speaks again Errant looks up with a blink of his grey eyes. How is he? It’s not something he’s considered much lately. He’s been waiting for whatever is shifting beneath their feet to reveal itself, or for the kingdoms to topple into each other in another spontaneous war. He’s been waiting and...well. He had done that other thing. Perhaps an accident. Perhaps magic. Most likely a combination of the two. “I brought Lea back from the dead.” He says, and his face is carefully schooled to stillness. He wants to know what the reaction of a sane horse (Crito has always seemed especially stable) might be to the arcane feat he’s just accomplished. e r r a n t no grave can hold my body down i'll crawl home to her

[Crito]

If he had known he was a marker of time to Errant, Crito would have laughed. While the black stallion has hardly aged, the roan seems to have taken up the slack for him.  His aging had been swift and substantial; his bones had become more prominent on his twentieth year, and just a few years later, the stiffness had set in.  Sometimes he wonders if it has to do with the Tundra or his parents – or if the combination had been simply been a poor one.  Either way, he’s always felt old.  Even as a youngster in the Jungle he had felt this way (especially back then, when Scorch had been busy running around the forests and terrorizing the monkeys).  He far preferred to stand and ponder, to let his mind roam instead of joining the various adventures that children partake in.   He has always been an old soul, and perhaps that’s why his body is so quick to catch up. But as old as he normally feels – as much of a default setting as it is - he’s never felt younger than when he stands in front of Errant.  The man has a way of appearing beyond time, or at least capable of controlling it on some level.  Something in his eyes speaks of an ancientness that will exist long after Crito is dust beneath the earth.  Or maybe that’s just how all younger siblings feel in the face of their elders.  The magician returns his smile before it drops at the sight of Scorch’s bite.  The roan appreciates the emotion on his behalf but he grins in a dismissive way.  No harm, no foul, he seems to say without opening his mouth.  It had hurt something fierce, but that is part of their sister’s charm, he supposes.  Or lack thereof. Errant wonders about the Falls but the diplomat has no answers for him.  He hadn’t taken part in that trip, and if he had, his recovery time likely would have increased.  They will make a good ally in that they are quiet.  Lack of numbers means that they will rely on the Tundra for everything, perhaps they will even rack up a debt to be cashed in whenever the cold kingdom felt like it.  Whereas the Amazons were a force to be reckoned with (and a natural ally, he supposes) the Falls can be easily manipulated and swayed.  He’s never been to the famous waterfalls, but if they secure an alliance, he thinks he will make the trip.   Talk turns from business to personal matters.  It’s clear that Errant hasn’t expected anything more from their less-than-affectionate relationship – even looks like he tenses in preparation to move off – and Crito is unable to hide an amused smile.  Why wouldn’t he ask how the black stallion is doing?  Isn’t that a natural question for one’s brother?  Their family is like this, though.  Their family had been like this, built and based on blood rather than emotional connection.  It’s never sat well with Crito (and quite obviously not with Scorch with her dam – and damn - issues) so he tries, for once.  Errant does too, confessing to bringing Lea back from the dead. “Oh,” is all the old stallion can manage at first.  His face is not so controlled as his brother’s, but he quickly fixes it up into one of approval.  He doesn’t really understand how it is possible (and really doesn’t want to know, either) but he’s glad it brings the man some happiness.  Even if it doesn’t show on his face, he realizes it does make Errant happy to have done so.  Why else would one drag up old skeletons?   Pardon the grisly image of one’s lover.  “So did you leave her there or is she on her way up north?”  He wonders if the once-dead feel the cold or if it just feels normal to them.  He also wonders what she looks life, if Errant’s magic is strong enough to restore as well as revive.  “I’m glad for you either way.  I imagine ruling can be a thankless, lonely job.”  He says, glancing sideways at the blue mountains.  He’s never felt loneliness himself, but for a normal, well-adjusted horse like Errant, he believes it is possible.   ( c r i t o )

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