"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
06-29-2016, 03:33 PM (This post was last modified: 06-29-2016, 03:35 PM by Belgarath.)
He should have known this would happen; Belgarath eventually stopped ageing, and while he doesn’t pretend to understand how the ice has crystallized his cells and frozen life in its tracks, he isn’t complaining either. No, he doesn’t complain much about anything anymore. If Belgarath is irked, he blasts whatever it is that irks him with shards of ice; if it was living, it usually wasn’t after that. If it was dead, well… the atmosphere just became a hell of a lot more comfortable for him. At this rate, the ice man occasionally thinks, should just go take over the Tundra.
Except not. The men there are boring and stoic and self-righteous. No one likes to see arctic hares try and dodge jagged pillars of ice as spring up through the rock-hard ground. No one seems to like his little demon friends except him. And that’s a real shame, because they’re just dying for some company.
It may come as no surprise that winter is Bel’s favorite time of year. The coldness may have invaded every crevice of his hluking body, but there is something about waking and not having to chill the air around him to stay in a pleasant(ish) mood. The sky is grey and the clouds are thick. The trees are barren and brown, and look like depressing skeletons reaching towards the sky. Permafrost coats the ground, giving the morning sun something to do, though it is weak and can’t do more than melt and re-melt it every day. His hooves crush the dead, crunchy grass enthusiastically, as he lingers at the edge of the forest and takes stock of the horses that wander in and out of the wide-set trees. Now, Belgarath doesn’t look particularly threatening; he’s just big-boned, and right now, his breath fogs in front of him just like everyone else’s. Had it been summer, their impression of him and the chill in his immediate vicinity may be alarming. But now? Now he can lure them in.Now is a fantastic time to return to Beqanna.
He’s sure whomever he meets here will think so too.
Of late, I have begun to chafe under the...the ordinariness of my self, my life. Oh, I'm clever enough, a fast learner with a delightfully impenetrable mind. But I was raised on the wonders of the universe and now that I am grown, I find I have become increasingly frustrated with my own inability to work any such wonders on my own. The taste of magic lingers in my mouth with each breath at home, more familiar than the taste of Mother's milk now faded to a distant memory; it is a hunger I have no power to sate. I cannot bend my body to suit my needs, nor can I shape the world around me, nor command so much as a single force of nature to my will.
Next to my father and my grandmother, I am nothing but a clever mind that can't be touched. I have tried, over the course of the last year or so, to be satisfied with my own limited capabilities. To explore the world around me and come to understand as much of it as possible. I have learned much in doing so, and yet this restless dissatisfaction remains.
Mother would like me to socialize. She and Father have been patient with my nearly complete disinterest in others of my species, but now that I am apparently a man grown, she believes I am missing out on an essential part of the experience of living. I suspect she is concerned that I will be...lonely. The only friend I have made is the guardian Father created for me. Why should I make others? The only people who matter are the ones who are Mine, and I feel my social needs are quite satisfied with two. Six, should I include Grandmother and my uncles and cousin. Ah, yes. Cousins. Nine, then. Quite enough to occupy my limited social interest.
Still. Mother had that...not worried, exactly. That concerned look on her face again this morning. The one she gets when she is about to bring up a trip to the Meadow or the Forest or the Playground – though thankfully I have outgrown that last option. She has not yet said the words, but I know the facial expression well now. Perhaps it would be better to act preemptively this time.
However.
It will be a brief excursion, this...possible social engagement. And the few experiences I have had with my guardian at my side as I walk through a crowd have suggested perhaps he is not the best accompaniment to have along if my goal is to interact with anyone. A panther the size of a large horse, composed primarily of shadows, with glowing green eyes? Somehow, the anonymous strangers shy away upon seeing him. Suits me just fine, but it will not do if my purpose is to...ugh. Make a friend. Or at least an effort at doing so, so Mother doesn't have to worry that I'll be some sad lonely hermit of a man my whole life.
She means well. But she thinks of her own years spent alone and yearning for company. I feel no such yearning. Still, I will do as she wishes. Which is why on this cold winter day, I find myself leaving the comfort of Echo Trails to walk to the Forest. My guardian attempts to accompany me, but at the edge of our territory I turn and ask him to stay home. It is not that I have any less affection for him. Simply that he intimidates the rabble, and how am I to meet anyone if they all run away? He does not like it, but he reluctantly acquiesces and allows me to make the journey on my own.
The Forest is the quieter choice, so I opt to investigate it rather than the ever-crowded Meadow. With the cold weather, it is almost deserted. I do eventually find one man, much larger than I am. He is broader, taller, and his dapple grey coat is a much better match for the winter scenery than my red violet coat and sky blue mane and tail. Well. It is hardly the same shade as the sky today, the blue hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds.
I look the stranger over, holding back a grunt as I mentally review social protocol. Extend greetings. Offer name. Exchange pleasantries. “Hello there. I am called Tycho. Quite the...cold day we are having, is it not?” Ah, inane conversation. One of the many reasons I have no use for this exercise. But it will make Mother feel better, and I suppose that is worth a bit of annoyance.
