The sound of the volcano often lulls Warrick to sleep. As smoke and ash tumble carelessly from its glowing top, the stallion finds himself matching his own breathing with the gentle rumble of lava gushing slowly from the depths. He has always been attached to the fiery mountain and savors the intense heat that it brings, feeling desperately cold and frigid when away from its scorching breath for too long. When sleep would find him (which was incredibly rare, unless tucked away beside Tangerine), Warrick would most likely beneath a sluice of molten rock, facing the ocean. It was no coincidence that the navy and bay stallion kept returning here every day, long before dusk, where the thickness of smoke conceals any attempt at seeing the night’s sky. He would try, sometimes, to stargaze and map the constellations like he so often did when he was younger (who was he to pretend that everything was the same?), but he found that the air nearest the volcano would begin to sting and burn his eyes and he began to use the pain as a buffer to keep him from searching the galaxies in pointless longing.

Even then, with the night sky hidden from him and the groaning of the mountain as his lullaby, Warrick’s slumber was always fitful and restless; often intermittent with nightmares and terrors that kept him from truly resting. Dreams of dismal and dark days ahead, unperceivable upon waking but leaving him covered in a sheen of sweat.

He sighs, almost comfortably, as he descends onto the familiar blackened shoreline, the warmth of the sunlight touching his back with gentle fingertips –  though the heat was not nearly intense enough to match that of his precious volcano, his silent and vigilant guard. His brilliant irises of cobalt shimmer blazingly against mahogany lids and black forelock as his gaze sweeps over the beach, the winter’s chill elsewhere leaving Tephra’s skies sunny and clear, with less humidity in its breath than ever before.

Time passes and it is now near sunset, where the sun still clings wearily to the sky yet pricks of indigo were starting to emerge. Beneath the golden light he stands, stoic and ever enduring, the hardened lines on his face growing dark as the sun’s rays play shadows across his auburn and navy body. He was standing near the golden shoreline, frothing water rising to meet his hooves then falling back, then coming to meet him again. The constant rhythm soothes him. It was this time of night where he truly came alive; where the sun’s rays begin to kiss the horizon and stars begin to brighten with clarity as the light of day retreats, leaving them to shine boldly. He welcomes the sun’s dying light happily, thankful for the coolness that night would soon bring. Though Beqanna lies under boughs of snow and ice, Tephra is left untouched: salty, sultry air presses against his skin, warm currents of air from the ocean bringing in the everlasting heat.

The night begins to whisper to him, a soft, clear voice that only he recognized; a voice so gentle, but yet seems to come from everywhere, even in the rustling of the tropical trees around him. The salty breeze brushes against him, twisting and curling the dark tendrils of his mane and tail carelessly on its fingers. In the distance, the volcano looms like a slumbering giant, groaning with life as smoke billows from the top, the bold gray melting into the red, oranges, and pinks of the clouds. He watches the volcano thoughtfully, his mind drifting as it always does.

Warrick

She finds him in the dimness of dusk, the sun no longer a thought along the night sky. They are silent as they stand side by side, Warrick’s gaze upwards into the heavens while Wound peers into the familiarity of the ocean. An audible sigh trembles from his lips at her admission, and there is solemnity in the way his large head nods. A soft snort, somewhat of a chuckle in his nostrils, leaves him and his blue eyes fall to look at her with a sideways glance. “Good.” There is a smile that pulls at his navy mouth, gentle and purposeful. “Thank you,” here, Warrick reaches forward and presses the cobalt of his muzzle against the ebony of hers, nostrils fluttering, “for going to Ischia. I am glad to have you home.”

“With Ischia being so close, it would be foolish not to partake in an alliance with them. It had been my original intent to solidify ties between us.” Before all of this. He sighs. “I will take it upon myself to speak with Brennen. I’m sure that they are feeling the pressure from Sylva as well, and if Nerine and Ischia are sister-kingdoms by bond, then it is only logical that we are as well.”

His tail flicks against his navy legs and a slight ruffle of his feathers is noticeably heard, rolling his shoulders and tossing his head gently. He does not want to worry her, but she is not only Wound, but the Head of Peace. She must know everything he knows. “Kwartz and Krone are missing. Whispers say that Karat is, too.” The refugees who have found Tephra to be their safe haven in their time of need have fallen into the hands of perpetrators while Warrick was supposed to protect him. His ears fall backwards in disappointment, his jaw clenching tightly. “I do not know if it is Sylva, but I cannot see Ischia doing such a thing - not without a breath of diplomacy.”

Wound is looking into the stars now, and silently the Overseer’s eyes follow hers. “Orion,” he says thoughtfully after a moment, his voice spilling into the night air as the constellation boldly shines before them, thrusting his chin towards it, “Wishbone always loved that story.” He pauses, chin still upwards but with a single blue eye turning to look at Wound. “I bet she looks at it every night; maybe even right now.” He remembers telling Wishbone of the stars and his ancestry, and he is sure that even as she grows, she will continue to look into the stars just as he does.

Warrick

His thoughts stir, cloudy and heavy in his mind, but somehow become clear when she reassures him. There are some days where he feels as if he still doesn’t know what he’s doing - that he could never be the ruler that Offspring had been, that Ellyse had been...even Magnus. There are so many things that could easily go wrong, easily slip through his grasping hands. But her constant presence reminds him that he is doing all he can and he must be content with that fact. He sighs, a rattled and constricting sound, as his eyes trace the stars. “I assume it is Sylva, then.” I’m not strong enough. “We must be prepared for anything, Wound.” His mind flickers to Marble, to Sibyl, to Wishbone. I cannot protect them all. 

The Overseer flexes his wings, suddenly feeling extremely small beneath the brilliant expanse of night sky. 

The conversation shifts, and Warrick prays that he will not have to think about Sylva and those he has failed to protect. His deep blue gaze scans the starlit sky, his cobalt lips twitching into the smallest of smiles. “Perhaps one day she will,” he murmurs, his voice soft with longing and dusty memories, of when Wishbone was just a child and marveled beneath Warrick’s grand navy wings. 

“She is due any day now,” Warrick tells her, smiling happily knowing that Tangerine is tucked safely away beneath the grotto, with his Marble. A new child will be amongst them soon, and he finds the thought to soothe him in a way he cannot describe. He wonders then, if that is what Wound had meant when she had asked, and the stallion snorts softly. He pauses, lowering his chin just slightly and finding that his eyes are searching hers. “You are happy here, aren’t you?” With me? Warrick’s guilt finds his face uneasily; is the way he is to her enough? Is there more that she wants, that he cannot give?

Warrick