"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
He had left in a hurry, escorting Venus back to the borders of Loess with another apology and a promise to visit soon. Then the wind had called him, and he was glad to answer. The soft leather of his wings cupped the air and bowed it to his will. He willed that it carry him higher and higher, until the air grew too thin to hold him. He fell like an errant feather, drifting in and out of cloud cover as Beqanna grew like a summer patchwork.
He watched as his shadow grew larger over the rolling landscape. The shape of his wings, the outline of his body from this angle... the shadow he cast bore more than a passing resemblance to the monster inside him. That realization stole the peace he'd borrowed from the sky, leaving clarity in its place. With an ache, his father's reality began to make more sense. And he'd... been an absolute ass to him. And to mom. There was a writhing in his chest. It had been there since the beach, a wriggling, clawing sensation that threatened to rise up his throat and engulf him. Destroy him. Is this what his father felt every day?
Is that why he left?
His teeth clenched against each other. For all his aimless drifting, a destination revealed itself to him. He couldn't face his mother, not yet. Castile, on the other hand... perhaps he could give guidance. Advice. Something.
With this mission in mind, the shimmering boy soared. Mother had mentioned that their father's home had been Nerine once. It wasn't far between Loess and Nerine, the craggy landscape already visible to the north. It was worth a try, anyway.
His mismatched eyes scanned the landscape as he went, looking for a break of black and white to appear in the rugged landscape. He was about to give up and move on when the form he was looking for appeared. Black, white, winged... yup, that was Castile. His own wings brought him down in a hasty spiral, landing in an ungainly canter amid broken stones and bushy grasses. Wind puffed through his lips as he came to a halt a few yards from his sire. He could only look at him while he caught his breath, unsure of where to start. Might as well cut to the chase.
"I could have killed them, couldn't I."
It wasn't a question as much as confirmation of what he already knew. It would have been incredibly easy, to let the rage take over, and leave mom and Venus laying broken on the sand. He looked for truth in his father's eyes, as he had wanted to do for as long as he could remember.
The solitude has settled the fire pouring through his veins. Every seething muscle has been soothed by the ebbing tide as he stands chest-deep in its current. With his eyes cast out thoughtfully, Castile reflects on Sabra, and on Santana and the girl. Emotions swirled in a turbulent storm. There was no coming back from it, the fire had ignited and exploded.
He didn’t want that, not for their first meeting.
Perhaps, he should have expected it. Santana has a monster lingering within him as Castile does. Mastering it was the trouble.
Easily enough, the minutes slipped seamlessly into an hour before Castile escaped the grasp of the ocean. With his mind slipping into tranquility, he is better able to address his son when he unexpectedly arrived. He would have been prepared and on the defensive prior to his self-induced mediation, but the lull of the waves tampers the heat in his blood. Blinking thoughtfully, Castile truly drinks in the sight of his son this time, no longer concerned with an emotionally-brimming shift. ”Yes,” he finally answers after a long enough consideration of the transpired events, ”you could have.” With a shake of his head, Castile pushes away the possibility of ever seeing Sabra crumpled, lifeless, on the beach.
For a few breaths, he concentrates on the sand underfoot as it dampens from the water dripping from his stomach and chest. This is the moment he has been looking forward to. Finally, he is speaking with his son – or, has the opportunity to – so why are words failing him?
When his voice does finally rise from the silence, it’s stern like that of a concerned father – a tone fitting for him, truly. ”We underestimate how dangerous we can be,” and although he warned Sabra and Solace he still couldn’t fathom what he was entirely. ”I almost killed someone, too.” A regret he has buried deep in his conscious, never wanting to revisit it. But her scars, he remembers, are puckered and remind him of his faults and failures.
The two year old shifted uncertainly, not knowing how to act now that he was here. Castile looked as discomfited a his shimmering son, trying to pull the right words from the aether. Santana knew himself. He knew that his emotions ruled him, that the coiling monster that inhabited him would not take much encouragement to rear its scaly head and overpower him. When Castile as much as confirmed this, Tana found that he had to break eye contact. His pink nose twitched as he tried to get himself back under control, pretending to exam a particularly scrubby bush at his feet.
For a moment the two gathered their thoughts there on the sand. Sabra, had she been present, would have been quick to notice how their expressions of concern drew similar lines between their brows. The lines deepened, and Santana flinched at the firmness in his sire's voice when he speaks again. The blue and orange contrasts of his irises glinted with defiance that died away as quickly as it was born. He wanted to hate his father, so badly. What gave him the right to inflict this curse? He had to have known that it could happen. That he could make monsters of his children.
Words saying as much touched his lips, but never passed. Santana thought back to the previous day, the way Castile and his mother had stood by each other.
His mother didn't need anyone. To her sons she seemed to be an almost supernatural force, capable of taking on the world and laughing when it knocked her down. Even when she'd been taken, Tana had never doubted that she'd return, one way or another. What he'd seen on the beach, what had made him so angry, was the way she had looked at the black and white stallion. Soft and sweet and scared.
"I don't want to hurt anyone. But Venus smells like a bird, and I wanted to eat her." His voice cracked on the sentence, thick with pained emotion. He was coming to realize that his life would be different from others. From his own twin's, even. Raul could fall in love if he wanted to. He could have kids and not worry about becoming so angry or frustrated that he ate them. Venus might be as blind as his own mother, willing to overlook his curse. But how long would that last? "How... how did you learn to control it? You have to teach me. Before I..." He swallowed hard past the burning in his throat. "I'm sorry I said the things I did. I need you to help me." the sentence hung in the air between them. It was a jumbled mess, but all Tana could see was his mother's face, shock mixed with fear as her blood dappled the sand and wet his lips. That couldn't happen again.
This is so familiar, Castile thinks to himself underneath a stoic mask, except this time he isn’t the victim. He stands here as a teacher, composed and collected despite his initial meet with Santana. They are two titans. It would behoove them to cooperate and learn, to love as a family should and set aside the past. Despite the best route, their minds are both weighed heavily with uncertainty.
Santana is brimming with emotions, an inner storm rolling in then ebbing away. Castile takes careful notice, his eyes gleaming in scrutiny as though expecting another outburst, but it doesn’t come. His son steadies himself and strains his focus on a shrub.
”That’s improvement already,” he remarks, his gaze shifting away as he searches for advice. This day, he knew, loomed but still he finds himself unprepared and nearly at a loss for words. Seclusion had been his ally when it seemed impossible to think for himself or control his ferocity. Yet, he can’t bring himself to admit this because he refuses to shun Santana; he won’t miss more time with his son. So, he contemplates and gropes for an answer but his honesty outweighs anything he could sugarcoat. ”That’ll happen,” he begins with a shrug of his broad shoulders, ”and it’ll be difficult to turn down the opportunity. We are hunters.” But they are different from most; they are fiercer and larger than a jungle cat or wolf.
And perhaps that is what makes it more difficult to control.
A moment’s hesitation lifts Castile’s mismatched eyes back onto Santana’s. ”I hurt someone I cared about, and that’s what made me realize I needed to learn control. Battling made it worse, but I don’t even have full control with that either. The adrenaline…” that’s his Achilles Heel. The surge through his blood sets his world aflame. ”You need to keep your emotions low, and not get frantic or too excitable.” Here, he is at first stamped with a creased frown, but a memory slips into the forefront of his mind. What had been embarrassing then is at least funny now. The crisp edges of his face soften and a half-hearted chuckle melts the tension between them. ”When I liked a girl, a couple parts of my body would shift. I can only imagine how awkward I looked with a random claw or elongated snout while everything else was that of a horse.” He was younger when he first met Solace. Ciri, he was a mere boy awestruck by a woman who pressed against him. He always just wanted to love, and be loved.
Blinking back the memories, Castile straightens and inclines his heart. ”Shift one part of your body at a time.” A curt demand spoken from the tongue of a loving father.
Santana couldn't help the flicker of pride that filled his chest at his father's words. Despite his own misgivings, he was finding that he liked this serious stallion. Damn. As the conversation progressed he felt a mixture of despair and reassurance. If nothing else, he had to appreciate that Castile didn't seem keen on bullshitting him. He was treating the pale youth's concerns with grave understanding, and offering what answers he could.
He soon found himself relaxing a bit, letting some of the tension out of his muscles. A sarcastic snort escaped him at his father's suggestion to keep his emotions low. "Easier said than done, old man. But then I guess you'd know that." The pearly white curtain of his tail flicked absently, halting when Castile's next phrase registered. "When you... oh my gods, that is so wrong. I don't need to know the details of how I came to be." His ears tipped backwards in alarm, desperately hoping this was as close to that conversation as he ever got with his sire.
The foggy look that had come over the larger stallion faded into something sharper. Suddenly Tana was treated to flashback of his mother's scolding expression when he'd misremembered some fact she was trying to teach them. The sterness had returned to his features and the command fell from his mouth purposefully. A vaguely insolent expression crossed boy's face, at the same time registering that this persona of his father's was that of a general. This was a man who could command armies. A man who was used to getting his way.
The broad expanses of his wings flexed thoughtfully, but he knew that they were a bad candidate for the experiment Castile required. Those were draconic enough, but he'd been born with them. Feeling a little stupid, he shut his eyes, envisioning the possibilities. He'd never even seen a dragon... with a deep breath, his body made the decision for him. Tail flicked back and forth, steady as a pendulum. What was a dragon's tail like?
Heavy. Longer bones, thicker muscles. Maybe ridged or spined. Back and forth, back and forth. Between one breath and the next he felt the difference. The pain his jaw had felt at sprouting razored teeth was echoed in the bones of his tail. Stretching and popping into new dimensions. The skin grew almost unbearably itchy. For one beautiful moment, he was in control. His eyes snapped open, thrilled at the success he felt before seeing. Like a long, opal-scaled serpent, his tail rested on the ground behind him. The tightly coiled beast within scented opportunity.
It was like jagged claws tearing him apart from the inside. Every muscle and bone tightened violently, spasming almost past the point of bearing. The worm that had been lingering just below his consciousness had longed for such a chance, it did not hesitate when freedom was offered. The pain was gone as quickly as it had surged, leaving behind a very startled dragonling in its wake.
He was no bigger than usual, only longer and lower. The predatory instincts were much stronger in this form, making the young drake snap at the starkly marked equid before him absently. Something was weird with his vision. His tail swept the scrubby earth uncertainly. Every inch of him shone in the sunlight like he was a dragon sculpted of snow and ice. A baffled whine reverberated from his armored chest, matched by the look on his newly narrowed face. Now what? The words tried to form, but only a low snarl came out.
@[Castile] sorry it's so late, but seemed important to finish.
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
Despite the relationship of father and son, Castile addresses Santana with adult maturity. The tone of his voice is steadied and riddled with experience. For years, he had been afraid of this – of spawning more monsters – but with the elapse of time, his fear has dissolved. They could be their own unified force. Dragons. A family. An army. A gleam reaches his mismatched eyes as Santana looks away and takes his advice into consideration, but then there is a break in the seriousness. A hearty laugh escapes Castile, his chin lifting and his unruly forelock falling to the side. ”I mean, I guess I could give you details,” he jests once settling down his laughter. It had been difficult to control himself that day with Sabra. They caved into temptation, crumbling to an inner passion that sprouted randomly, but powerfully. It may have been aggressive, but perfect nonetheless.
The haze of memory dissipates with the rustle of movement. Castile blinks and from seeing Sabra, he now sees Santana again. His body contorts and for a moment looks awkward with a simple change of the tail, but then more is rippling into draconic features. A look of relieved pride appears on the sharp ridges of Castile’s face as he watches his son conquer the beginning feat. ”Excellent,” he encourages with a ruffle of his own wings as everything shifts in a controlled manner. It doesn’t last, but he should have expected it. Much like his own challenges as a youth, the creature that lies within them both always wants release. It frequently rattles the bars of its cage, wanting freedom. A step forward almost begins an intervention, but he doesn’t immediately say or do anything – let the boy learn.
The result is a startled son.
Castile watches with a predatory intensity as Santana’s eyes come to focus on him. ”You did it,” what began as a calm statement ends with a rushed exhalation as he reels backward, dodging his son’s snapping jaws. ”Quite the dragon,” the differences in their draconic bodies is spectacular and fascinating, but he says nothing of it. Instead, he quietly nods his head and straightens himself to observe. ”That’s your homework,” he adds while looping around Santana, scrutinizing with a critical eye before stopping in front of him again. ”Practice shifting one part at a time at first so you understand how it feels. The next lesson will be emotions,” a lopsided, humored grin appears, ”a weakness of us both.”
