"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
Something about what Nihlus had said resonated with me. I do have a small life. And while I enjoy my life the way that is already is, perhaps I could be doing something more. I am not bold enough for any major decisions, so I do what everyone has already done, and I make my way to the Meadow.
The trees are beginning to change color here, and I am reminded of the autumn in the Dale. It has been years since I have seen tries with such a fiery palate, so for a long while I simply stand in the shade of a copse of yellow-leaved aspens and observe. There is a bit of a nip in the air despite the bright afternoon sunshine, and my pale coat is extremely thin. I consider leaving, but then what would have been the point of this whole venture – to look at the leaves?
No, I decide, I should probably at least talk to someone new.
I know most horses in the Desert, and presumably most of the horses here in the Meadow will be strangers. Perhaps here I can blend in, and I will not be looked at with pity and soothed for a pain I do not truly feel. Blend in, I think as I look around at the population of the Meadow, might be more difficult than I had thought. Though my curling horns are the only mythic thing about me, I am tall and broad and pale, eighteen hands tall with the bulk to match. Though I had not inherited the black (and black and white) coats of my parents, I do have my mother’s spots, though mine are red instead of the black that my brother and sisters have.
I step away from the shelter of the beech copse, knowing that being in the center of things will probably make it easier to find someone to talk to. I look around curiously, and despite my potentially menacing size, I am smiling and my hazel eyes are warm.
As far as the size of life goes, Finner has perhaps the smallest one. His birthplace was within the quiet of the Gates, his upbringing approached alongside the whispering fronds of the willow trees, his friends resorted to his family members and the woodland creatures. Although his parents taught him the ways of social interaction and how to defend himself and how to be respectable and how to respect his elders, nothing can truly prepare him for the ways of the world.
He is a sheltered little boy and the world is a scary place.
Although he’s nearly a year old, he’s never explored beyond the borders of the Gates. His mother has certainly given him freedom – pointing which trails lead to where and what their destination is like – but he has been too scared (or perhaps too timid) to adventure too far away from his homeland. And yet, one day, he takes that first brave step into the world.
He follows the trail to the meadow (“A gathering place, where almost anyone can be found and gossip is all anyone can talk about,” his mother had said) and his ears prick when he begins to hear the river of voices in the distance. Suddenly his smoky grullo body is moving quicker, gangly legs nearly tripping over themselves in an attempt to reach a place harshly different from his bubbling streams and tall grassy clearings and comforting willow tree trails.
The colt breaks through the tree-line with a rush of fresh air rushing into his nostrils. However, his headlong running is stopped rapidly by the body of another. Rather than barreling into a clearing speckled with quietly gossiping horses, he has run right into the solid form of another horse. The crowded bustle of the meadow is something he wasn’t anticipating, even though his mother clearly told him it was a busy gathering place.
“I… Oh my gosh, I’m so” – he suddenly stops, eyes spying the ram horns atop the other’s head. His eyes widen until they seem to pop out of his head and all he can say is, “What are those?”
finner.i always knew that iwould love you from afar
It’s nearly impossible to believe that it’s fall again.
The trees don’t lie, however, and as she looks at the rainbow of reds and golds, Talulah sighs. More and more horses fill her home (some having returned from torture, others from history itself) and yet, she’s never felt more alone. Their king has been gone far longer than a simple diplomatic excursion should require. His absence is observed as a lack of golden luster in the air, a tense undercurrent where before there was only graceful stillness. She worries at this and for the kingdom. But selfishly, she wants him home for herself.
The greater magnitude of autumn’s chill is in direct correlation to Tiphon’s absence.
She decides she needs a break from it all. So with Ramiel in tow, the metal-mare sets off for the meadow. She intends to show the young colt what the shared space is all about – why so many gravitate towards the unifying place at the center of their world. She also means to warn him that a select few can and have taken advantage of unsuspecting visitors, that he should come with an open mind but sharp senses. Little does she know that her son has already had an adventure of his own there.
When the pair breach the tree-line, Ramiel remains tight-lipped about his previous foray with his sister. He simply nods, somewhat guiltily, when Talulah begins pointing out various landmarks and gathering spots. He sees the log that was once a mighty oak before Joscelin had felled it; he wonders if the tiny bugs and worms have begun to take up residence underneath. Before he can venture over, his mother has pulled him in another direction. His gold-rimmed eyes land on an interesting pair that they will intersect if they continue. They are both males, one his age and the other far older. The older one is impressively large – larger than any horse he’s ever seen in his young life – with dull, curling horns.
Talulah catches the boy’s wide-eyed admiring and smirks lightly, deciding it won’t hurt to meet a few new faces while they are here. “Go ahead and say hello.” She nudges him, and without further encouragement, he trots towards the duo. Ramiel is too serious to initiate anything more than conversation with the other boy (and certainly too intimidated by the grown stallion) so he stops in front of them with a reserved smile, despite his excitement. “Hello, I’m Ramiel.” His bottlebrush tail wags a little. The black colt looks at Finner before inspecting the spotted male’s horns again. “My mother had one once. She said it was a horn.” He gives Kreios an appreciative nod, “but you have two.”
The grey mare comes up behind her colt then, smiling more openly than he had. “Greetings gentlemen, I’m Talulah. How are you both doing? She sweeps her tail across her hocks, waiting for them to speak
kreios don't you tame your demons, but always keep them on a leash
The sudden impact atartles me, and though I do jump away, I am not pushed. The colt is much too small to have moved me, I realize as I turn to face him, lowering my pale face to better see him., He’s half-grown, lanky and thin in a way that I have never been. He’s apologizing for running into me and I am not one to take offense, so I am already shaking my head with an: “It’s fine, really.” when I see that he’s looking at my horns.
He seems amazed in a way that I’ve only ever seen horses new to Beqanna seem, and I wonder if perhaps he has led a sheltered life.
“They’re horns,” I tell him, lowering my head more so that the spiraling keratin horns are easier for him to see. “I got them for joining the Deserts Army.”
After a while, long enough for him to have seen them but not long enough that I get a crick in my neck from the awkward position, I raise my head. “I’m Kreios, by the way. What’s your name?” The sound of small hooves pulls my attention from the grullo colt, and I turn to see another young colt, this one looking just as interestedly at my horns as Finner had. I am strangely glad that it is my horns they find intriguing, and not my failures. They do not know them, of course, but it is enjoyable nonetheless.
“Yes, there are two, but they’re still horns.” I reply, nodding as I look farther back at the approaching mare that must be his mother. Together they smell strongly of the Dale, and I feel a momentary pang of sadness. “Hello Talulah. I’m Kreios.” I know the answer to the question that I am about to ask, at least for the mother and son, but Finner I am not so sure about. “Where are you all coming from today?”
“Baby, I’m not moving on; I’ll love you long after you’re gone.You will never sleep alone; I’ll love you long after you’re gone.”
When it comes to the changing of seasons, Finner is still amazed. He’s young and curious, as he should be, but the way the colors shift between greens to reds and golds and oranges and yellows and browns is something he is particularly interested in. It surprises him, really, how such normal colors could change to something reflecting a sunrise, and that the rest of Beqanna’s population can go around living under the flaming trees without very much recognition. Fall, it seems, is perhaps the most wonderful of seasons in his opinion.
The stallion leans down to show Finner the spiraling horns (to which the boy shifts away slightly, intimidated by the fierce trait) and explains how he got them from the Deserts’ army. Being a prince, the smoky grullo is well-educated in the kingdoms, their rulers, and the goings-on within kingdoms. He knows the Deserts is a traited kingdom, but he’s never seen a trait before (per the example of his recent surprise). Before he can say much more, another colt is trotting up to the scene.
Suddenly shy, Finner’s brown eyes turn toward the dirt. “Oh, hi. I’m Finner.” Then the boy’s mother is appearing and the yearling wonders if he should have brought his mom too. Maybe they could have talked. The one with the horns introduces himself as Krieos and the mare as Talulah. When they ask where they’re from, Finner grins. “I’m from the Gates.” His eyes sparkle upon mentioning his home (a quiet place, but he is safe from danger at least) and then he sighs lightly in content. “My mom’s name is Camelia.” Then he turns toward Ramiel. “Why doesn’t she have a horn anymore?”
It’s a small, polite crowd they have assembled today. No life-changing, Beqanna-wide alterations will be discussed; no wars or whispers of dissention will be mentioned. It’s a simple group with simple exchanges, and yet, it feels almost revolutionary in its simplicity. There is no measuring of each word, no withholding of questions. They are free to mingle and learn from each other without the weight of kingdom pressures upon their backs. Talulah has, so far, been so worried about exposing Ramiel to the work side (recruiting, diplomacy) that she’s almost forgotten the life side. The fun side that makes all the work worthwhile. Here, talking freely with other easy-going horses, it’s easy to see the first hand benefits of humble conversation.
Ramiel, with his black-hole mind, drinks it all in.
It’s the first he’s really heard of the army (with his peace-loving mother oddly quiet on the caste) and it intrigues him greatly. The idea of honor and defense are deeply rooted seeds in his young brain, and having the training to do just that sounds irresistible. He’s not sure if he would want his own pair of horns, though. As impressive as they look, they also look awfully heavy – maybe Kreios could hold them up on his massive head, but Ramiel doesn’t think his will grow as large. He glances up at them once more before his eyes track down to meet the older male’s gaze. “Have you ever used them in battle?” The colt knows nothing of fighting and hasn’t seen it for himself (save for the impromptu challenge he saw on his way here; the correlation with fall is lost on him) but he thinks this stallion must not be a stranger to it.
The other boy seems far more reserved than Ramiel. The Dalean notices how Finner looks at the ground and he looks downward at first, too, thinking Finner’s found some interesting bug. Seeing nothing, he shrugs and smiles wider at the colt. Maybe it is a child’s game in the Gates, he thinks, or maybe they just raise scaredy-colts. Either way, the black and gold boy seeks to set Finner’s mind at ease. He relaxes his forward posture and tries not to stare at the grullo when he addresses him. “It’s great to meet you, Finner. Well, my mom had a horn when she was in the army. But she decided to focus on diplomacy and left the army.” He looks at Talulah (who nods her assent) before focusing on the colt again. “I guess it just fell off after that.” It’s a fairly horrifying thought he’s never considered until that moment, and he grimaces a little.
The metal mare nudges her son affectionately (realizing just after she does so that he probably doesn’t appreciate the action in their present company). “It actually more or less dissolved.” Dissolved much like her short stint in the military. Kreios looks more like a lifer, like the kind of soldier who would one day be grizzled and gray with a lifetime of experience. But he’s unlike any soldier she’s ever met. He’s soft and modest, traits she hopes her son is taking note of. “We are from the Dale,” she says to the group. And for once, that’s all she wants to say about their home. She realizes Finner is a prince by recognizing his mother’s name, but doesn’t mention that she knows. “It’s nice to escape and dive into different waters, though.” For the children’s sake, she poses a question, though she’s interested to hear Kreios’s answer if he’s so inclined. “What’s the most interesting thing you have ever seen?”
