"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
The meeting had adjourned and Nayl spared a brief glance first to Lior, then Castile. When having taken a place at her side, the boy couldn’t help but peer upward uncertainly. His eyes narrowed for a fleeting moment, his heart lurching as he tries to decipher whether to protect mother or simply stand aside.
He chose the latter.
Nayl pressed her lips against her son and mustered him toward the mouth of a nearby cave. Silent as poison in the veins, she glances over her shoulder to Lior and suggestively tilts her head for him to follow. With minimal conversation as of late, the Queen still finds herself pregnant with a second. The discomfort has already sunken its teeth into her body. Some mornings she awakens with a dull ache that stems across her core, while other days she is fine and more tolerant. Fortunately, today is calm.
Castile, while meandering toward the cave, occasionally glances behind him at the burly stallion then up at mother. He almost asks, his mouth opening, but he’s quickly hushed with a sharp look.
When they stop, the ocean crashing in front of her and the cave yawning at her back, Nayl looks at Lior. She had maintained such a stern expression for so long – a face of marble – that seeing a lopsided grin appear is almost startling. Beneath her forelock, her eyes blaze with a subdued joy in seeing him again, in breathing him in. ”I thought it was about time you two finally meet.” She doesn’t question Lior’s whereabouts or even scorn him for being absent; she has always reveled in independence. Castile, curious but protective, takes a stance at her shoulder, his wings shuffling against his shoulders. His mismatched eyes – one silver and one gold – follow the edges of Lior’s face, then down his neck and side to where leathery wings sprout. My wings have looked like that, he almost says, but decides against it as mother continues with a cooled voice. ”Castile, this is your father, Lior.” While mother had been content in the absence of the stallion, the boy had often wondered.
Who is he?
Lior
Where is he?
I don’t know.
Will he like me?
Of course.
When is he coming back?
Enough questions, my son. It’s time to rest.
Nayl cannot count how many times the boy questioned her. The worry for his father frequently burdened him, but all she could do was offer vague answers that would spare him from high hopes, because in reality, she didn’t know what to expect. She didn’t know how Lior would take to fatherhood.
But he is here now, standing with them on their sandy shore. ”Lior, meet Castile.”
He knows to follow her by the way she tilts her head. Loyal and trusting, he follows along with silver eyes never leaving the sight of his woman and child. Silently, he is thankful for the disbursement of horses after the meeting. There had been a thick ache in his chest to hold her close, bury his face in the silk of her mane, braid her hair with his words.
But that would have to wait. He would always wait for her.
Heavy hooves thud the ground behind them as his silver eyes watch the boy risk a glance at the dark man. Nayl's careful eye catches this and he can see how her mouth curves in a disapproving frown. Lior can not stifle the small chuckle that even surprises him a bit. But in only a few more heartbeats that he is stopping with the painted pair. Lior remains quiet as he choses to let Nayl speak, watching the boy's expression as she introduces them. (The dark stallion feels terrible that it should have to be this way.)
His hardened expression melts away with a smile as the dark stallion take a hesitant step forward and dipping his head low with an extended nose. Lior would allow his son (his son!) to near him, his expression gentled with forward ears. "Hello Castile, my boy." The voice that speaks is unlike any Lior had used before. It is soft and low, speaking easily to the painted colt. Lior wants to scoop him up, cradle the colt and his mother and never let them go. He wants nothing more than to be surrounded by them for all of eternity but first thing is first and he must befriend his child and that would most likely take some time.
She had expected him to be there, to see Castile’s very first breath and to caress her sweaty cheek while under the stars. It played again and again in her mind as she tried to hold off the birth for days, or had it been weeks? The pains wracked her as the child kicked and squirmed. Lior wasn’t here, but she wouldn’t hold it against him.
A storm had swept through Nerine that night. The night sky cracked open with flashes of lightning and rolling thunder. She took refuge in a cave – the cave she last saw Lior – and she crumbled to the ground. When she breathed, she could smell him. It was like he was there with her, embracing her as Castile slipped from her womb and gasped for air.
He hadn’t been there, not physically, but the lingering scent of him had been enough.
When she stares into his silver eyes, she can see how much he hates for it to be this way, how their son is almost a year old and they are only just now meeting. Nayl reaches for him reassuringly and grazes her lips across his neck, but then she pulls away to watch him interact with her – their – son. Her heart patters against her chest and she smiles while a warm wave rolls across her.
Castile doesn’t turn away his father’s invite to touch. He reaches in turn, brushing his muzzle against the broad plane of his cheek. ”Hello,” his voice is a low murmur as he inhales the musky odor for the first time – the first time that he knows whose scent this is – and registers it. ”Father,” he adds as a second thought, ”Dad,” he corrects with a shuffle of his wings. While he has a myriad of questions, he also cannot bring them to fruition. His lips purse shut and he’s quiet, at a loss for words. Nayl interjects then, her voice hinting at curiosity and admiration. ”Castile seems to have inherited something from you, but he isn’t quite sure of it.” And she airily chuckles at this. ”So far, only his wings have shifted into something resembling those of a dragon,” a brow lifts and a lopsided grin plays along her mouth, hinting at Lior that their son is capable of much more than he knows.
And he knows that for as long as Nayl shared her bed with him, for as long as he drew a breath, he would not forgive himself for missing his son's birth. The pain is deep in the silver of his eyes but it is extinguished when he looks upon his boy.
Castile is tall and strong like Lior. A pair of leathery wings sprout from the boy's back and Lior can not help but smile so broadly that his face may split. Never had the dark man ever felt happiness like this. Never did he fathom that he deserved it. Lungs pull in the scent of his child, harshly and greedily, as though he could never have enough. But the boy is smart like his mother (much smarter than himself) and Lior knows that whatever path Castile choses will be the best for him.
"Castile..." Lior draws out his name, breathless and smiling before wrapping the heaviness of his skull around him to draw him close in a tight embrace that Lior has waited for for so long. It is only Nayl's voice that wakes him from the dream. Dark ears move to catch her words as he releases Castile with a soft laugh. Pewter eyes gaze proudly upon his boy, beaming. "My son, you are dragonborn. Your mother will surely despise me for that." Lior smiles openly and without restraint before he takes a few heavy steps to his queen -his woman- taking her against his chest in a loving embrace. Happiness vibrates within his every fiber as he can not full understand how he was to be so deserving of this life.
Lior’s joy is contagious. It breathes into Nayl as she watches the interaction between father and son, never having expected that the sight would be so fulfilling. Her heart patters against her ribs, warming with every breath as her autumn eyes dance from one to the other. It’s almost tempting to leave them to their own and to bond and talk, but alternatively, she can’t pull her attention from the two. Even as her stomach churns with life, her attention stays funneled on Lior and Castile as they touch and smile and talk.
”Dragonborn?” the boy asks with heightened interest, his body humming with excitement. There’s a boyish, lopsided grin that finds itself painted across his face before he turns back to look at mother. ”Yes, my son,” Nayl responds with a fondness, ”just like your father.” In her eyes, she sees strength and power; Castile will be an unstoppable force. Lior, however, likely only sees pride in his son, and perfection in every way. ”Perhaps you can show him the ropes, Lior,” she says, punctuated by a sharp intake of air. Castile notices, but he can’t resist looking back to his father, his wings extending. ”Yes, please!” He rears back, his forelegs flailing, but his balance forces him back down sooner than wanted. ”I want to fly and shift. Mom hasn’t been able to teach me since she doesn’t have wings.” A slightly apologetic smile spreads in attempt to mask her increasing pain.
She wants so bad to watch them, to see them take flight together and to reach into their souls to extract the powerful monster within. It would warm her heart more, ease her anxiety of parenthood, but then there is another jolt of pain that reels her a step backward. ”I believe it’s time for our second child to be welcomed into the world.” Their family of coastal dragons will expand now.
Nayl only half expects the boys to follow her to the mouth of the cave. Lior’s scent is still prominent here, reassuring her as she steps just beyond the entrance to lie down. ”This is where you were born, Castile,” she spares him a brief glance before her mind tumbles with pain, contractions, breathing, and pushing.
It doesn’t take long, or so it doesn’t seem. Lior and Castile are here, and her skin is being periodically kissed by the salty breeze. Another breath and another push. The pressure eases and the pain subsides. There is a warmth pooling behind her and a body leaning against her hindquarters. Nayl rolls herself up then, her fiery eyes peering down at the filly. ”Isobell,” her voice is husky, tired, but she musters the energy to look at the boys. ”You have a daughter and sister.” But she sees a potential heir for Nerine, a powerful child that will quickly find her place in the world – here or elsewhere – and so Nayl forces herself to stand with her remaining energy to try and help Isobell nurse.
