this isn't mischief

    He hasn’t forgotten her (even amongst all his killings and adventures and quests and other “partners”) or their little game (a game which resulted in something – or, rather, someone – whom she would have to care for). He hasn’t forgotten their first and second encounters, or the way her gold eyes flared to life with spunk and emotion. He hasn’t forgotten the feeling of the two of them connected on that night, or the way their individual magic warred for a victory.

    He’s back again, now, and his thoughts turn toward her. It’s been years since he saw her last. He wonders (although it isn’t tender thoughtfulness; his wondering offers no sympathy or love) if she has found a lover who will soothe her in the night when she wakes from dreams of his grinning, smug face. He wonders if she has had any children past her firstborn (and his firstborn, too), and whether they were raised better than theirs. He wonders if she’s getting along in her years, if her eyes are fading and her splashed coat is graying and her powers of the earth are growing weaker.

    He doesn’t ask around to find her location (he never has, he never will), but heads for the most humid part of Beqanna. The musk of the Jungle leaks into his nostrils as he travels closer. The chill of the winter cold burns away to reveal the warmth of the Jungle’s constant temperatures and the swirling sounds of snow melt into the cawing of birds and growling of predators.

    He doesn’t call for her. He does, however, uncaringly trek over the border and waits near a thin stream weaving between the underbrush. She will find him; she usually does.

lokii

this is mayhem

this isn't mischief

    In his years of chaos-bringing and adventure, he still looks exceptionally good for his age. Perhaps the illusionism helps with that a little (pulling at the minds of those around him, unconsciously twisting their eyes to view him as that young stallion he had been once, even manipulating his own mind), or perhaps he is just rather good at taking care of his body. The gray hasn’t escaped him, however (it is beginning to show through around his eyes and muzzle, against his knees, in his silver locks), and he has to force himself to recognize that years are ticking by and taking his youth with him.

    However, the Jungle still remains a constant river of life. He notices is it as he stands among the undergrowth, listening to the symphony of the Amazon’s forest sing about him. The birds nearby quieting their song (listening for, perhaps, the earth-wielding mare’s steps or in fear that the tree beneath them might give way if they don’t notice her presence) cause the trickster to turn his eyes toward the approaching shadow.

    Speaking of age, he can tell the golden-eyed warrior has received it plentiful. Although her eyes still blaze with that fire and her magic still proves to be strong (the earth trembling and the trees quivering speak of that), her body is withering. Although muscle still hides beneath her coat, her spotted body is sprinkled with gray and the natural slenderness of a woman is receding into the sharp angles of an elderly mare. When she speaks, however, her voice is strong and familiar.

    Her question is a simple one (although he finds himself pausing at the thought of it), compared to the myriad of words she had for him the last time he came creeping after her. His head tips to the side slowly, angular cheekbones stretching as his lips slip into that ever-present smirk of mischievous amusement. “I came to see if you were dead yet,” he admits. Sure, he was here to check up on her (did that, in itself, admit the small amount of care he might actually hold for her?).

    The trickster forced the thought from his mind. He didn’t feel anything for the golden-eyed Jungle warrior (he never has, he never has, he never has, he never has…) and he never would. Besides, she must not feel anything for him, either. He can tell she has tried extra time at parenting aside from their failed daughter (he can see it in the lines of her face, in the sharpness of her hip bones, in the strength of her eyes, in the crease of her lips) and part of him wonders if she found love outside the tide-like (first arriving, then receding, in constant motion) presence of him.

    A new edge took over his tone of voice, as if he were convincing himself of the words. “Unfortunately, you showed up and dashed my hopes.” Bruised eyes scanned the Jungle forest behind her. “Who’s queen of the Jungle nowadays?” he says, forcing a change in topic so she couldn’t have time (although he knew she would find it) to analyze his word choice and tone.

lokii

this is mayhem

this isn't mischief

    He has to admit, although time has swept over them, she looks exceptionally well. The gray across her brows and fluttering her lips give her an aged look, but the fierceness in her eyes and the muscle under her skin prove she is still strong. He wonders, compared to her, how he might look. There is gray unashamedly beginning to spread across his torso and around his bruised eyes (a hidden genetic code finally coming into play), there is an ache of arthritis in his knees during winter (a consequence of his ambitious young life taunting the magician who broke said forelegs), and there is a certain degree of gauntness in his cheeks (outlying the sharpness of his bones underneath, bringing them to the forefront, yet giving him a handsome look).

    He can almost sense her fight (after knowing her for so long, he’s almost gotten the hang of her – almost), but it’s hiding from him. He catches glimpses in the hard gold of her eyes (in the way her lips draw firm and grim, in the heavy flare of her nostrils), but other than that there is nothing he can identify. The snarl of her voice causes a thick chuckle to creep out of his mouth. “Calm down, babe,” he purrs. “It’s not the end of the world, the fact that we’re aging.”

    Then she admits to bringing him down with her, when she dies, and he smirks. “Can’t go without me even in the afterlife, babe?” His bruised eyes dance with mingled amusement and mischief. He shrugs carelessly. “Although I suppose it would be fun to bother you everywhere you go…” The thought of going somewhere causes him to think about his interaction in the meadow with the girl that looked strikingly similar to this golden-eyed warrior.

    “Speaking of which, I’m positive I met a daughter of yours in the meadow the other day. Spotted girl, young and sassy, with orange eyes… Ring a bell?” He pauses, then looks at her with something almost close to carefulness and deep interest mingled with – no, it couldn’t be – a sprinkle of hurt. “Who’s her father?”

lokii

this is mayhem