"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
Life – everything – changed from how he knew it to be.
There had been a fire. Mother. Djinni. Amet. The inferno roared and somehow Castile matched its ferocity with his own.
Then there was a lull and a rebirth. There was hope, and then there were nothing but trees. The hillside faded into towering beech and walnut trees. There, he saw Ivar then again Amet. They were all together, talking, laughing, but then Castile remembered nothing more. Nothing but darkness.
Too afraid to ask about the elapsed time, Castile paid a visit to Hyaline. He reflects briefly of Ciri and a smile touches his lips. She was the honeysuckle in a thorn patch, but he assures himself that it is only because he hardly interacts with females. Alas, he became aware of tensions which influenced his decision to come here against his better judgment.
The field is supposed to be a beacon of hope and new beginnings, but Castile finds himself hesitant to land. He spirals in the sky high above, contemplating his decision and weighing the opportunity against the chances of poor fate. Perhaps no one will see the familial resemblance he has with Nayl and so her – their – enemies will pass by him without regard. If they do recognize him, it could mean turmoil, but he resigns to consider how there is chance in everything.
With a heavy breath of resolution, Castile descends and heavily lands in the grassy field. His mismatched eyes flicker in curiosity as flower buds unravel and open. His wings, transitioned from feathers to thin, membranous skin, tuck neatly to his sides. Here, he stands, and here, he waits.
I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
The transition from spring to summer was not at all discernible. The clouds today look no different from the clouds of the previous day, Ivar thinks as he watches them drift by. That one looks like it hasn’t even moved at all, he muses, but surely some puff of wind has stirred since he’d last come.
The pied stallion might have watched the clouds for hours longer, but he is distracted by the flight of a distant bird. It appears first as a black speck in the north, but as it draws closer, Ivar realizes that the wings are not feathered pinions after all, but rather broad and leathered, tipped in claws that he cannot discern at this distance. Though the figure is too far to smell or hear, Ivar is familiar with that particular patterning of tobiano. (This is the first time he’s seen it from below, of course, but he recognizes Castile long before the other stallion lands.)
Ivar moves through the tall grass, his long legs taking him closer to the empty bit of Field where he suspects Castile will choose to land. He is not incorrect, and he watches as his friend lands elegantly. Flight is something that Ivar cannot truly imagine. Weightless, he imagines, but in a less controlled way than how he drifts below the water. Drifted, really, he has not swum in months.
Pressing away those thoughts, Ivar moves closer to Castile. From here, the smell of the Hyaline alps is clearer, and Ivar assumes that his friend has gone back to live in the land with the bottomless lake. That is what his mother had sent him to do, after all, and everyone in Ivar’s world has always done what Nayl sent them to do.
“Come to recruit too?” He asks with a conspiratorial bump of his shoulder against Castile’s. “I’ll bet I find one before you. I even promise not to cheat.” Ivar is truly more immediately interested in catching up with Castile than he is in finding new members for Loess, and it shows in the way his brown eyes stay focused on Castile’s rather than seek out prospective targets. “We’re neighbors now, you know.” He adds, “I’m just south of the mountains, in Loess.”
Castile has always tried to be a good son and to follow directions. Mother demanded he live in Hyaline, so he did, but then Ivar stole him and his last memory is of the beech trees of Sylva towering around him.
So, he failed her. He failed all of them.
Hyaline called to him, but not in the way that a home does. It wanted to remind him of what he did – what he failed to do – and it scorned him through conversations reliving that evening. The world laughed at Castile when it brought him a beautiful girl only to have Amet touch her possessively in front of him. He had blinked slowly while determining a route to take. Of course, it had been amiable. The scaled king had always been kind, but there was something churning in Castile’s gut that led him to the Field because he no longer belonged in Neverland where everyone stayed young.
To see Ivar here, however, was an unexpected surprise. He flinches initially, not assuming to have company so soon, but he can’t suppress the smile that stretches across his lips. ”Long lost friend,” he replies in a voice far huskier than when they last met as boys. ”You may already be winning,” he says with a lighthearted chuckle despite how the truth thickens in his throat, ”I actually don’t have a home.” Perhaps, he could have stayed in Hyaline, but it didn’t seem right. And Nerine? Mother would never want her son as a pet in a matriarchal society. And so he painfully admits his life of solitude with a rippling shrug of his shoulders, accepting of his fate. ”Tell me more about Loess,” because maybe, just maybe, something can look up for him.
I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
Castile’s presence inspires memories, or racing along the shore of Nerine, of sneaking into the valley of Hyaline at midnight and sneaking back to Sylva with Castile as some sort of childish, elaborate prank. He remembers standing beside the river, looking out over the land and feeling as though he was invincible. It seems so long ago. So much has changed.
Its good, then, that Castile’s admission is a complete distraction from those thoughts. Ivar’s jesting grin slips a little as a frown settles across his pale face. Castile without a home? What had happened to Hyaline?
The questions scurry quickly across his mind, but there is something in the way his old friend speaks, something that suggests that perhaps he might not be ready to answer those questions yet. Ivar, who knows all too well of tender subjects, decides to probe no further. It’s easy enough to do, as Castile asks about Loess, and Ivar can occupy himself with the answer.
“It’s big,” he says, “Quiet for the most part, but I like to think of it as an empty slate.” That reference to their youth is less painful, back to the time when it seemed that the two piebald colts truly could have done anything they set their minds too. “I joined the army,” he adds, “I might even be promoted soon.” It feels a bit strange, to be excited over such a thing, but that is Ivar’s life now. There are other interesting things about Loess, but it would feel odd to describe exactly why he finds the Loean monarch so appealing, so he leaves that be.
“I think you’d like it,” Ivar finishes, “But you could always come and see for yourself before you decide. I was thinking of heading up to Nerine to see about training with the Gladiators, and could give you a tour on the way there?” He spends most of his time on the move, after all, and he recent decision to try his hand at a real spar has given him a reason to head back up to the coastal land of Castile’s birth.
”Well, look at you, hot shot,” he jests with a bump of his muzzle against Ivar’s shoulders, ”oh, and those muscles.” It’s the first time he has been able to joke and to be so lighthearted. It brings a rush of nostalgic memories. He remembers their first meeting in Nerine, their adventures, their laughs. It had all been so innocent then. They didn’t have responsibilities, only doting mothers watching their every move (almost).
Suddenly, there is a great part of Castile that wants to relive all of that.
”Loess,” he repeats thoughtfully, casting his eyes toward the direction of rolling hills and green meadows. ”Hopefully less trees than Sylva,” he adds with a shrug and smile, ”Your mom’s home was very confining for someone with wings.” There were few places that he could take flight and land, hindering his practice to soar the sapphire skies. Since he hasn’t quite mastered shifting the least he could do was fine tune his flight skills. Once, he remembers, he had been too afraid to even attempt it. The heights worried him. He was concerned his wings would fail him, but they haven’t yet. In fact, they are stronger than they have ever been and have a massive reach that he is silently proud of.
”I will go with you,” he finally decides with a nod of his head after mulling over the opportunity. Briefly, he considers Ciri and Amet and how closely mingled their scents had been. It struck an odd chord in him, but one of which he knows he should ignore and move away from. ”Show me Loess,” and with a preparing roll of his shoulders, Castile awaits to follow his childhood friend.
