"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
Im alone on these shores, starring blankly into the murky ocean beyond. Its quiet here and my thoughts race wildly. The ever present scent of sulphur clings angrily to my painted coat, the silver of my mane blowing into sea glass eyes.
Hestia has died, and the four winds blow madly against the earth in protest to the great Leviathans death. Nerine wouldnt be the same when I returned. Neither would I.
My own mother had become queen I supposed. I'd study under her diplomats, become familiar with their air of democracy and voice. Perhaps I'd throw my head into the fighting pin, become reckless as the warriors in Warrick's army. I didnt want to be here anymore. I lobned for the cool air of Nerine and the hug of my mother, but im not a little girl anymore, and Tephra is nice despite the heat.
With timid steps I sink into the spring warmed waters of the ocean, my muscles relaxing beneath the wintry blue.
The ocean waters of Tephra are the deepest blue fathomable - unlike Ischia’s clear and translucent sea, or even Nerine’s dark and grey swells - but like a wrinkled sapphire the waves roll onto the blackened shoreline, frothing white with the choppy currents, mixed with ash and smoke. It is not an land that welcomes you easily; the sting of sulfur is strong within the nostrils of the newcomers, and the heat is merciless even in the winter. The peninsula reflects its residents: resilient, brooding, patient - like the volcano that steadily watches over them all. Parts of Tephra are beautiful, like the slow-moving streams of lava that parts from the mountain, moving through the green-gold of the grassy inland with an orange glow. The underground grottos, warm and inviting, or the shoreline at daybreak (despite the blackness of the finely ground sand). The tropical foliage, though heavy with humidity, is lustrous as well, especially in the spring when the buds of plumeria trees begin to open in white and yellow blooms, or the red and pink hibiscus that open to the sunrise and close at each dusk.
It is a land that must learn to be loved. It takes time.
The Overseer wonders how the Nerinian girl has adjusted (if at all) to the differences between the craggy cliffs she had been born into and the soft groaning of the volcano that overlooks all of Tephra. Learning of Hestia’s death, the osprey-King immediately seeks out Philomena, searching for her throughout the inlet and towards the volcano. The season of winter has slowly melted into spring, but the only difference that Warrick can feel on his skin is the increase in moisture of the air, thick against the robust color of his flanks and shoulders, which now are a shade darker from a light sweat that has soaked his skin just from wandering through the dense jungle before the beach.
When the broad, fat leaves of the jungle are pushed away by his head and chest, (they swap at his skin, droplets of water splashing onto his coat), his cerulean gaze quickly scans the appearing shoreline and easily spots Philomena against the black sand. With a snort he emerges, droplets of humidity collecting on the surface of his cobalt wings, pressing his navy legs purposefully into the shimmering onyx sand he knew so well. She is staring out into the stretch of blue ocean, nearly knee-deep in the calm roiling of waves against the shoreline.
He joins her, his presence not hidden as his shadow falls onto the sand and sea, as well as the sound of his hooves pressing into compacted and wet sand, or when his legs splash gently into the surf. The smell of wind, sun, and smoke cling to him, robust and vivid as he halts beside her. She might not be able to tell, but there is still a lingering of Nerine’s scent on her skin as if it refuses to leave her completely.
“Philomena,” he begins, his own gaze looking out beyond the shoreline and into the horizon as well, his voice solemn and deep. “I assume you’ve heard.”About Hestia’s death, your mother’s new title, your home.
Time is all I need to love Tephra. Time is all anyone ever needs in the case of emotions. As I think I am joined by the silent but ever present Warrick, his presence comforting in my time of grieving. He stands silent and bold as the ocean cliffs in Nerine, his words rolling as the tide that laps gently at our legs.
"Your daughter... She has been chosen as successor?"
I trusted that mother had made the right choice. From what little I had spoken with the bay girl she had seemed trust worthy. If she was whammy mother had chosen to lead us after she left I would follow her until she asked me to quit. Thats just how things go I suppose. Wishbone would make a fine queen.
"I suppose some congratulations are in order."
I whisper, pale eyes never leaving the darkening horizon. There is an orange haze over the land, casting a warm glow across my equally as rusty golden coat.
"If you don't mind Warrick I think I would like to stay in Tephra for longer than previously agreed upon.."
I look to him then, a quiet pleading in my eyes. As much as I loved (and missed) Nerine, I wasn't sure how much of it I could face right now. I missed my friends, and my family, but moving on is what I needed. I just hoped he would let me stay.
Philomena’s first words are not ones he is expecting, but the Overseer’s face does not show his surprise. He had been speaking of Hestia’s passing on (a sudden death, quick and shocking), and can feel the hint of solemnity in Philomena’s response. He is standing solidly beside the younger mare, the only movement being the rustling of his feathers in the sea wind, or the brush of his dark tendrils from his face. Warrick continues to stare out over the wrinkled ocean with her; a habit that has found him since his first few days in Tephra long ago. He will stand at the tides of the blackened shoreline forever - this he knows. He wonders who will be there with him at the end of days, which he hopes is many, many years (thousands upon thousands) from this moment.
“She has,” he tells her with a heavy breath. There is pride in his chest for Wishbone’s ascension into the sisterhood as their future queen, but he knows all too well the darkness that encompasses such leadership, and the burden that now both of his daughters now carry in their own countries. The Overseer snorts softly, as if expelling the thought from his mind, though it still lingers there; brittle and broken. Philomena’s voice is barely above a whisper, though it is not fragile or delicate. It reminds him of the hiss of the waves against the shoreline. He says nothing in response to her congratulations, not that he is ungrateful, but because he can tell by the wayward sound of her distant voice that she is not lingering on that thought, but something else. A blue-tipped ear is trained in her direction, his oceanic eyes staring out into the familiar sea, the long tendrils of his tail floating in the current around them.
Philomena’s voice begins again, and when he feels her eyes on him, the osprey-King turns his eyes towards her, his stoic head following. There is a small tilt of his head, barely noticeable, but the calm of his blue eyes remains the same. “I am more than happy to allow that, Philomena.” Perhaps the sweltering peninsula has grown on her, more than she had originally planned, or that there was more she needed to learn here. Either way, he turns his face back out to the ocean, shifting his weight and inhaling deeply - salt, ash, and dying sun. “Would you like to tell Scorch, or shall I?”
It wasn't that I wished to forget dear Hestia, it was just a hard pill to swallow for now. In my mind she was still wandering around with mother, attending duties as a queen does. I didnt want to see her as she was. (Wilting away in a queens grave somewhere)
It hurt deeply that my world was changing so quickly without me there to watch it morph. I know Warrick is proud of his girl, studying under those I would have been made anyone a strong woman. I wished the best for her. I hoped (If I had one) that my father would have been proud of me too.
"Thank you."
The words are futile I know. But it means a great deal to me. The question he presents brings a crease upon my brow and a turn away from both him and the toiling sea as I think.
"I think it would be best for me to tell her."
I have returned my pale gaze to the deep ember of his stare and cant help but find solace there. The overseer, father of Tephra. Scary as he may seem the man only wanted what was best for his regents.
"I will return in a few short days."
Danger lurked in Beqanna, but I had always felt safer on my own in the free lands of my abandonment. She would know to find me there I hoped. She had done it once before.
