"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
Instead of resigning himself to being alone for the rest of his miserable existence, Sabrael lets loose the beast (lets loose his anger and fire, too, and borrows his wings) and takes off for a place he should have forgotten long ago. He drags himself into the sky without gusto, like it is a task he is forced to complete rather than a passionate endeavor. There can be no passion in loneliness, he’s learned over the years. There can be no enthusiasm in the insanity of his mission – of doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.
Still, the island remains his homing beacon.
He comes back to the spit of land time and time again, scouring the shores for any of the faces he might know. Leathery wings work the warm air easily, keeping the dragon aloft on tropical air that is as familiar to him as his own mother. He looks down from the heavens first and then proceeds to land to take in the rest of the kingdom by foot. Ischia is very much a wild thing but small; it doesn’t take long to push past the tangle of vines and see that he is still alone. Everyone he had cared about is gone from or a lingering ghost in the place they once all shared.
So he leaves Ischia, time and time again. He finds other places to live, other places to hunt. He hones his skills and forgets his manners. The beast is free more often than not and they become one and the same. The line between them blurs and disappears almost altogether. Now, he understands the benefit of the cold reptilian clarity he’s always muddled up with his fiery emotions. Emotions stamp weaknesses into one’s bones, making them brittle and frail and easily broken.
He comes back one more time and vows to never return again.
The wind changes as he pushes his scaled snout into the Ischian airspace. There’s the smell of the salt-brine sharp and punchy, but also something else, something that shouldn’t be there. A sick sort of smell that reaches down into his guts and makes them twist with wrongness. Sabrael still searches the island high and low for signs of familiarity, but again is disappointed. At one point, he thinks he smells her – but the trail stops cold at the water. Up in the air, he had seen another sand-ringed dollop of land that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps there had been a migration of sorts?
~
There is no festering, diseased smell on this island, at least.
He remains a dragon until he can figure out what is going on, just in case. The beach roars behind him, seemingly incensed by whatever has plagued the land. Is all of Beqanna different now, too? Or is Ischia destined for bad luck? Grinding his teeth, he looks out over this new island, wondering where to begin.
11-11-2018, 10:19 PM (This post was last modified: 11-11-2018, 10:29 PM by Wallace.)
this time I’m torn, please wake me if I lose that face search in these eyes: there’s still fire in the darkness
There was a time when she'd been so emotionally broken soon after she'd been returned to Ischia after what had happened to her. Each time someone looked at her, she was so sure all they saw were the scars, that elegant lace permanently marked into her skin. She was so sure all they saw was her stupidity, and how she must've been asking for it in order for such a thing to happen to her.
That Wallace. She had a mouth on her.
Said the wrong thing to someone and finally paid for it, hadn't she?
She had. More times over. Because even now her heart doesn't know how else to beat but to his rhythm. Each day she still suffers at his expert hands no matter how far he is. He had claimed more of her than he'd meant to, stolen far more than he'd intended. Not on that day when he'd left her in a bloody heap, but when he'd come crashing back into her life to make amends, treat her right, teach her how it should've been. She supposed it should've been incredible. Since that's what he'd showed her.
And then walked away from it. Because she was nothing. No matter what she did in life, she was still the worthless orphan that was too young to be on her own, smarted off too much, cut others down with an effortless sweep of bladed words. She'd had a fire in her once. She was haunted and empty now.
When Reilly wasn't with her, protective and caring and trying to make her smile, she was often alone. Kharon preferred his time with his sisters, though he made sure to have alone time with her as well. Just not as much. And Kir..
Well, she was alone. And this was a path she was beginning to memorize, this soft trail between the trees where the sun pushed through to spill over the ground in random pools of light. There wasn't a breeze to lift her brown hair off her neck, nor to bring his scent to her from above. She only ghosted through the sparse forest, her brown eyes not really seeing what was around her, only feeling the warmth touch her skin and then cool again as she slid into shade once more. Warm then cold. It didn't matter that she wasn't watching much. There wasn't danger here. It wasn't home, but it was safe.
BUT HOW COULD YOU KNOW THE SWEETEST SUFFERING OF MOVING ON
A fool. A damned fool.
He should have evaded the temptation of the mainland once discovering the blight that infected both the land and individual lives.
But he wanted to help, to recruit and heal.
Unfortunately, his plan backfired when he became arrogant and assumed himself safe from the plague.
It weighs him down as he flies across the bay, like lead weights attached to each of his limbs. It takes every ounce of will and strength he can muster to reach the island. His landing, unfortunately, reflects his exhaustion as he stumbles forward from the momentum, his face almost skimming across the sand. Quick actions prevent his fall. Much to Tiphon’s luck, no one is nearby. He retreats into the foliage to regain his composure before traversing the landscape to find another part of the beach where the dragon heavily alights and observes the surroundings. ”Hello,” his voice is jubilant despite how the fatigue is sinking into his bones, weakening him. It’s so early in the infection, however, that no other symptoms have surfaced.
He swallows past the lump of concern in his throat as he walks closer with scrutinizing eyes. ”I’m Tiphon. Welcome to the Island Resort,” he wants to abbreviate it by simply referring to it as the island, but Ischia fits in that simple description as well. That much, he knows. Why? He isn’t sure. To this day, Tiphon isn’t quite certain why he was awakened or why he had only come to life with so few memories. He knew his name, his parents, and his twin. Nothing more was provided to him – no, not even a purpose. Since he abandoned the abysmal darkness, he has desperately searched for his place and a means to aid those who need it most. Somehow, it brought him here.
Little does Tiphon know the relation he has to this reptilian beast. It would shatter his heart to realize how much he has missed, and how little he remembers of a treasurable life.
TIPHON
STARLACE AND INFECTION
@[Wallace] @[Sabrael]
It didn't seem like Wallace was there saying hi to Sabrael, so Tiphon didn't acknowledge her. If I need to edit this, let me know! xoxo
The belief that he’s on the cusp of reuniting with his family makes him alert and eager as he’s surveying the island.
So when there is movement shaking and parting the trees beyond the beach, Sabrael’s reptilian gaze is quick to notice. His eyes narrow in on the form that approaches him, an equine stark white and glowing. Grandfather? The closer he gets, the more sure Sabrael is that it can be no other than his angelic grandsire. Before Tiphon draws any nearer, the dragon pumps his wings and lifts himself into the tropical air. He closes the little remaining distance between them and comes down again shortly in a spray of sand. He was raised to know it would be rude to make his elder do all the work.
The rust-colored beast snakes his head forward to bump snouts, but stops suddenly when Tiphon introduces himself. He pulls back instinctually, wondering why on earth he is being acquainted with someone he’s known his entire life (someone he’s sat at the knees of and listened to stories of the old days, someone he’s learned from, someone he’s loved)? Perhaps it’s been too long since the stallion has seen him dressed in scales rather than fur? Easily, Sabrael sheds the form. He falls down, down, towards the sand as his body shrinks into its first form. His deadly claws become dull hooves and his wings curl up and meld into his roan sides. He becomes a horse, too, like the porcelain man ahead of him.
But he keeps the fangs – one never knows when they’ll need a weapon.
Maybe his grandsire will recognize him now, Ramiel’s underachieving son who never really left his mother’s side. “It’s me, see? Sabrael?” This time he does reach forward to bump his muzzle against Tiphon’s shoulder in greeting. When he draws back, he looks into gold eyes for any signs of familiarity, the same gold that shows as flecks in his own eyes. Well, maybe his brain is addled with the plague. Or maybe he is just that forgettable, it’s entirely possible. “I’m so glad to see you again, I wasn’t sure anyone would still be around. I went to Ischia first, but nobody was there. Is grandma here, too?” He looks away briefly, afraid to ask. “Or Wallace?”
Hope warms a heart that has long been cold and resigned. Years of solitude have made him wary of any emotion that could leave him vulnerable – he stopped caring after his mother’s murder. Ischia had been so quiet the few times he returned to it. Devoid of the former Daleans and the new faces that helped create the new land, Sabrael couldn’t bring himself to stay on an island of strangers. There had been nothing left for him in Beqanna. Now, he wonders if everything will change. Now, he considers what could be if he stays.
There’s a sound in the forest and he remembers –
“There was a heat signature over there,” he inclines his head towards the spot, remembering what he’d seen before he shifted. “Over here!” Sabrael practically shouts towards the moving stranger. Friend or foe, he cares not – he can most assuredly handle either. He hopes it is the former, though. And there it is again, that damned hope muddling up his once clear-cut mind. Who will it be walking on his grandfather’s island?
this time I’m torn, please wake me if I lose that face search in these eyes: there’s still fire in the darkness
She hadn't been looking up to the sky. She probably never looked up. So she hadn't seen the dragon in the sky, scanning the island for familiar faces from his wide, arial view. She hadn't seen his magnificent wings spread nor their shadow passing over.
Her eyes were forward, though. Not down.
But never up.
She was in a numb tranquility. Just walking alone, though she knew Reilly would prefer to be at her side. He was a good friend. She would lose him someday. He deserved better anyway. They all deserved so much better than the hollow, young woman she was. She used to have so much fire, so much spunk. She could cut anyone down with a few short words and quickly measure them out to the kind of person they were.
Maybe she still could. But it was clear she wasn't the same after Kerberos.
Her dirty brown figure passed like a ghost through the Island that seemed so happy despite all the worrying things going on. As always, she didn't belong. She would never belong anywhere, not even within her own family she helped create. They were kind and pitying, and tried to include her regardless. That was perhaps the only kind of attention she would garner; pity, sympathy, or hate. She was not a nice person.
Her path was eventually interrupted with a loud Over here! She turned a milk chocolate face. Then the caramel body followed, but she remained still. She was delusional now, drawing up hallucinations of Sabrael. It wasn't the first time she'd done that. He hadn't been around, but she'd seen him in many places. She still hadn't figured out why he'd smelled of rich fire smoke and leather, of heat and hunger, but it didn't make her stop wishing she could smell it again even for a short conversation.
She chose to follow the illusion. She had nothing else to do and she was used to aching. Even as the two men came into view, she wasn't sure it was real. And she couldn't seem to make herself care.
"Tiphon," she said blandly, studying his flawless, porcelain face for a long moment before shifting her gaze to the ghost of Sabrael. He wasn't really here, though. He was never really here anymore, especially since they'd left Ischia for safety. He might never find them. He wouldn't know to swim across the ocean to this busy island, buzzing with healers and an angel coming and going as they healed everyone they crossed paths with.
"Sabrael," she said anyway to this daydream. It barely came out above a whisper, so unused to saying his name aloud and almost afraid to. He seemed a little tense and that was strange to her. It was curious that she could remember him so vividly. She'd thought she'd begun forgetting the details, as is so typical with time.
Her brown gaze slid back to Tiphon, generally more familiar with him since hallucinations didn't really count. "Have you remembered the Ischian Prince?"
BUT HOW COULD YOU KNOW THE SWEETEST SUFFERING OF MOVING ON
The boy has a look of recognition, even with a body of a dragon. There is a brightness in his eyes – happiness, even – but Tiphon struggles to fathom a reason. Admittedly, his heart is drumming when he watches the dragon become airborne before alighting heavily on the sand again, closer. With desperate focus, he remains steadfast with a watchful stare. His expression of concern ignites when their muzzles touch, a look of familiarity caressing the shifter’s face. ”Sabrael,” he echoes the name, hoping to rattle or lure closer a memory that has been lost, but there is nothing but disappointment reading across Tiphon’s face. ”Not again,” he whispers more to himself as he takes a solemn, dragging step away. The touch had been one between family, one in which he had forged decades ago perhaps.
His return could have been painless, could have been easier, if no one recognized him.
First Wallace, now Sabrael – his own grandson.
There is no methodical way for Tiphon to conceal how his heart rattles painfully. A breath catches in his throat and his molten eyes plummet to the ground in shame. Grandma, he hears, but Tiphon cannot even grasp a name as to whom that would be. Someone he coupled with. He had children, grandchildren. Maybe even great grandchildren.
It takes a few moments before he can bring himself to look Sabrael in the face again, a look of hurt smeared across his face. ”I’m so sorry,” this is almost déjà vu, but with someone else to whom he apologizes. It isn’t Wallace this time, but he knows that she is nearby. ”I remember nothing, no one.” The undertone of self-loathing cannot be missed as it weighs his words down heavily. It’s eating away at him until Tiphon seizes his own mind and thoughts, clutching them in a balled fist so that his emotions can be checked.
With a heavy sigh, he straightens himself. His eyes close for a moment, but when they open, they level on Sabrael softly. ”My grandson,” his heart patters happily at the word, ”I will need you to tell me everything you know. Tell me and remind me of the memories I’ve lost,” he pauses then adds before Wallace joins them, ”Please.”
By the time their company expands, Tiphon has quieted. He holds his gaze for another heartbeat, then his attention drifts to Wallace as she dreamily steps forward. ”Ischian Prince?” It doesn’t register at first, but then his head shakes and he is suppressing his personal shame again, holding it back from surfacing. ”I was the beginning of a legacy in Ischia?” Wallace had mentioned he led with two others when the island sprouted from the sea, and now he hears of his grandson being a prince. Glancing between them, he cannot help to ask, ”What happened to our family in Ischia?” It will likely be a painful truth, but at this point, what isn’t?
