It's almost strange, seeing that demon of a man (my beloved brother, he who played war with me amidst the Jungle vines and who shaped me into who I am today) walking into this kingdom. Although the lands here are beginning to shape themselves into specific ideologies, they will never be as set as they used to be: men, women, traited, untraited, light, neutral, dark. Rodrik comes now to a Sanctuary, to a land where his family rules - we are a long, weary line of rulers it would seem, and perhaps it's that which strikes me as so peculiar. He comes now, broken and most likely weary, to a kingdom ruled by his niece, when once, he had been the one on the thrown.

But I won't tell him any of that, by any means! I prefer this man now, shackled still to evil, but more willing to embrace his softer sides; the weight of the crown no longer presses him to darkness as it once did.

When the call comes, little Rhaegor's shapely head pops up from where it had been absently grazing, a reserved but undeniably excited smile accompanying the powerful perking of his ears. A snort trumpets from his wide, chocolate brown nostrils in response; the loudest sound he is capable of making in the face of strangers. I grin to hear his effort, knowing that it's uncommon for him; but then, my name is being thrown along the wind, and my attention flies elsewhere.

"Brother."

I am taking long, determined strides towards him, such that I barely catch his poke at my age; by the time he's commenting on how long it's been since our last reunion, we are in each's other's embraces. I close my eyes in the strong, masculine touch... And yet somehow, as I breathe in the scent of his decaying flesh, I am reminded of our mother, and our father. We are both of them in our own rights - and together, it's almost as if their essence is with us.

We pull apart, and by now, I've formulated a response to his jibe, my lips quirking into a huge and crooked grin as I speak. "It would seem that immortality has caught me at the most laughable of times, and what a pair of immortals we make. One rotting, and the other halfway to having dust for bones; the universe has a cruel sense of humour."

Remembering myself - or rather, remembering he who is not myself - I step back, allowing Rhaegor to come forward. He does, with a subtle confidence and a gleam in his eye that suggests an understanding far vaster than one his age ought to have. I watch as the two stare at one another unblinkingly, barely breathing, either; the wings atop the gangly colt's scrawny back twitch once, but then stay absolutely still. He's concentrating, I think to myself. He wants to be everything we have dreamt of...

And you must be Rhaegor.

After a moment's pause, the boy - about fourteen hands these days - gives a slow, calculated nod. Then, in such a way that leaves my chest tight, the boy leans forward with his ears laid submissively back, eyes cast up towards his uncle's face as he goes to press his dark muzzle against the rotting skin of his uncle's shoulder. My own amber eyes flash to Rodrik's, their brims filling with tears whose emotion I can't quite place; but what I can place is this:

The boy is showing his respect; his regard; he knows who he is named after, and he knows his place...
I tuck my chin to my chest, attempting to contain myself, though I've rarely been able to before.

As I watch my grandson and my brother interact, a deep gratitude swells my heart; were it not for the foundation built long ago on the soil of the Jungle, I would never get to know Rodrik this way; as soft, vulnerable; as someone he once was and who he has strayed so far from since the day he left our vine-strewn kingdom. But I do not cast any judgement on his soul, for hadn't there been a time when I too had partaken in his specific breed of darkness, acting as high-priest for the flames he served so fullheartedly? No, I feel only gratitude to be so close to his heart, and him to mine - forever, now. For good, as laughable as the whole ordeal might seem.

But the scene which plays out is not laughable, though its gravity is utterly respectable. Rodrik lowers his head after a moment's pause to find the boy's, accepting his show of humility with grace. His glowering eyes find mine, but only momentarily, their depths flashing elsewhere in what I guess is an effort to save face. I've always been the more vulnerable brother; younger, but also just different in nature. He'd been the king, and I'd always been his shadow; but I don't mind the life of servitude, for he was a worthy king, and indeed, my most beloved brother. I find no shame in having lived my life as I did.

My eyes are clearing as he next addresses Rhaegor. The young buckskin steps back to listen, ears perked handsomely; he nods in affirmation of his uncle's statement. "I hope to do him justice." The colt's voice is whispy, barely more than a breeze through some leaves; but it's there all the same, a testimony to the intense connectedness Rhae feels to his uncle. I choke upon realizing he's spoken, and I nearly set into my grandpa-ish emotional messiness again, but then Rodrik is speaking to me - clippedly - with the subtle urgency of one on the brink of something that I daren't deny him my full attention.

What if we could see dad again, Kavi?
I can make it happen.

"Rodrik..." My throat is dry, thoughts flying through my skull too quickly to be pinned down and used for critical thinking. "Would it - would it hurt him?" My brow furrows, a desperation I hadn't known I had building and building and building until I can't deny it. Father had died so long ago, decades, that the pain of his absence is now more memory than anything tangible. But in the idea of seeing him now, the wound reopens, and I find myself saying what perhaps I ought not.

"I want to see him again, Rodrik. And - he could meet Rhaegor."

It would not hurt him, comes my brother's reply. My throat squeezes, though such an answer ought to have brought joy.
I think father would like that. This loosens my muscles, sending a crooked smile to my warm brown lips. I hold Rodrik's gaze for a second, thinking how similar our expressions are, those his is rotting. For a moment, I wonder if father will appear as such too - I have no concept of the magics that extend beyond simple immortality and some colourful patterns upon my skin. But I trust Rodrik to do right by our sire, and so, say nothing of my concern.

As Rodrik steps back, Rhaegor steps forward. I want to laugh at the eagerness of the child but instead find myself tucking him to my chest, holding him still such that he does not interfere with his great-uncle's concentration. When my brother turns his back to us, as if making himself an audience to what is about to happen, my shoulders shake off some invisibly weight. "Be still, my child," I murmur to Rhaegor as he shudders in my grasp, vibrating with what I expect to be excitement but what I am worried may turn into fear. "Be still."

Rodrik speaks then, as Rhae concentrates on grounding his energy; the red devil explains what the extents of his powers are. I am relieved to hear that we will not be seeing the tatters of dust that by now make up our father's corporeal remains. Still, I find myself holding my breath, meeting Rodrik's gaze a final time before he turns away.

Although we are not a part of his power, a coolness comes over both myself and my grandson as the third begins his work. The first tangible sign of magic is the movement in the grass not far ahead, a movement which becomes a stir and then a small whirlwind. It takes me more than a moment to realize that the fixtures of earthly items are building themselves in a predestined shape - more than that, in a shape that slaps me in the face with its familiarity. By the time his chest and neck are rendering themselves out of grass, I know the figure to be my father's. Now it is Rhaegor who must hold me back, himself transfixed in something of an awe-struck horror of the magic before us.

I want to rush to him; but in the silence that comes after the ghost's materialization, I know that I ought'n't move. Perhaps not even to breathe.

Father.
Nothing.
Focus.
A shake of his head, a step forward, the telltale signs of concentration and effort that I alone can recognize from my brother's death-riddled features.
Rhaego.
I touch my grandson's neck, allowing myself past him until my chest is just behind my brother's heels. The child follows too, staying behind and to the side as I have.
You are free to speak.
At the sudden sound of unadulterated love flowing from my brother's lips, tears spring to my eyes; I am privileged enough to hear that voice far more often than many who come across the red devil, but hearing it now in its complete form nearly sends me to my knees. I have not heard such a voice since we were both boys playing at war in the Jungle; since our father came along and showed us how to stand up right when preparing for battle, even just for sport between young brothers.
Please say something.

"I am here too, father." My own voice rings achingly, a barely contained desperation in its depths; I have always known myself lesser than Rodrik in these ways, when it comes to handling emotions. Perhaps different and not lesser, but old habits and old ideas about where one stands in relation to another die hard; I choke on anything else I might want to say, scared to fuck this up and to break my brother's heart for my own stupidity.

But after a long, drawn out silence, it would seem that neither of us are to have our hearts broken today. Not by disappointment, anyhow.

Rodrik and Kavi. The sound of my name upon my father's lips leaves me echoing Rodrik's gasp with a quiet sob, though no others follow it. Without hesitation now I bring myself alongside my brother with grandson in tow, amber eyes brimming with tears and searching the apparition's face as if I might find answers long sought in the blades of grass found there. A crooked grin trembles on my lips; and when I glance to Rodrik, I see a similar expression dancing upon what remains of his.

I want to say something, to speak to him at length of my life and my dreams and my lovers and my children, oh gods my children, but he is too keen even in ghosthood; with an expression not unlike the one his sons wear, Rhaego turns to investigate the youth brought before him, asking after him with a tilt of his mist-filled head.

The boy steps forward, unafraid in the eyes of a ghost. Blue light radiates from him in ripples, a type of energy-release that I've never seen him exhibit before. My lips part to make the introductions - but a voice as wispy as the figure that makes up our father speaks instead, and I am left to silently watch.

"My name is Rhaegor, and I am your great-grandson... It is very nice to meet you, though I've known I would for quite some time now. Will you tell me stories about you? And may I listen if you speak to grandpa and uncle Rodrik? I can tell you about me, too - but I," and here the usually silent boy pauses, dropping his gaze before lifting it again. "I don't want to waste what time we have with you." Stepping forward, the colt gently presses his neck to the broad front of the apparition, barely touching Rhaego and yet curling beneath his might as only a child can.

I look to Rodrik.
I thank the gods for him in silence.