"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
05-15-2022, 10:36 AM (This post was last modified: 06-07-2022, 06:31 AM by kahzie.)
Malik knows that Tephra had not been an island when he was a child, but the sinking of the south had happened when he was young enough that the wide expanse of water does not bring him the same odd chill that it might to his elders. His father had shared stories of the drowned lands, of the flowers of the pampas and the year-round fire of Sylva’s woods. Malik recalls one visit to the rocky hills of Loess, but had preferred swimming between the wind-carved buttes with his cousin to traipsing beneath the blazing sun.
There was no explanation for what had happened, no answers for those who had lost loved ones in the flood. The creatures that had appeared in the South at the same time seem the most likely suspects to Malik, and yet they have done nothing but remain beneath the sea. They’d even hosted a feast for their neighbors, one that his sisters had found delightful and unsuspicious.
These thoughts, among others, race across his mind as he crosses the strip of land that connects his childhood home with the mainland. He’d overheard sometime in the meadow mention a terrible storm in Tephra, and he needed to be sure. He needed to know that it, too, had not fallen into the sea.
The young stallion is relieved to see the waving palms and tropical greenery still standing, but there is an unmistakable scent to the air, of ashes and old fire, and an acrid smell that he doesn’t recognize as ozone from the lightning strikes. He almost stops at the shore that had once been the border with Sylva, but remembers what his mother had said about her meeting with Casimira and heads into the kingdom.
Though he has reassured himself the place is here, Malik still feels the need to keep looking. He tells himself it is for anyone at all, to be sure that there is no lasting damage. But part of him knows that he’s looking for his twin, and the farther he moves into the once-familiar kingdom, the stronger the nostalgia becomes. When he reaches the first river of lava, its banks edged with burnt trees, he stops, trying to determine what had happened.
When the south had flooded he had been young—hardly a year old. While it had not directly affected him, it had been an eye-opening experience; the first time he witnessed the destruction nature could cause, and how quickly everything you knew could be uprooted. Curiosity had led him to asking his mother if she had ever seen such devastation in Tephra before, and Casimira, always honest, had told him of when Loess had invaded Tephra all those years ago.
He tried to imagine Tephra alive with fire and shrouded in shadow, but he can’t.
He tried to envision the aftermath, of scorched earth and fields of igneous rock, but it is beyond what his young mind can comprehend.
After the lightning storm, though, it is not quite so difficult to imagine.
He stands now at the edge of one of the flowing rivers of lava, a frown etched onto his face, clouding his usually bright green eyes. They were lucky the damage had not been worse, his mother had said, and he supposes that is true, though it does little to ease the knot forming in his chest. He had tried using his flora revival earlier but had quickly grown discouraged by the sheer amount of vegetation that had been burnt, but the dismay he felt was hardening into agitation.
He almost does not notice the other young stallion when he appears not far down the bank, and when his eyes first snap to him there is a sharp suspicion to them. He was not typically unkind to visitors but the storm had left his nerves on edge, though by the time he approaches he has been careful to smooth the irritation away. The smile he offers the stranger is somewhat taut, and it does not reach his eyes, but it is as genuine as he can manage. “We decided rivers of water were far too common and thought lava might be more interesting,” he says dryly, staring at the molten liquid with a cautious interest before lifting his gaze back to the visitor, wondering if perhaps he was here to check on a friend or family member after the storm. “Are you looking for someone?”
R H A E G A L
I COULD OPEN THE DOOR AND BREATHE IN THE DUST I COULD WALK THROUGH THOSE FLAMES TIL I DON'T FEEL THEIR TOUCH
His eyes follow the movement of the lava, watching with fascination as the red hot material spirals and swirls and flows ever onward. Rock so hot it had melted, he remembers Wishbone telling him. And more of it now than before, he can tell, which means less of Tephra. Unlike Rhaegal, Malik knows little of the burning of Tephra. Despite being raised by a thing that resembled Gale, the Curse had never told Malik of his father’s first death, and the lava is far more entrancing to the young stallion than it is terrifying.
Truly entrancing, perhaps, for her startles at the sound of the stranger’s voice. Malik’s head turns quickly, eyes widening in surprise. The rest of his body turns to face the approaching horse a moment later, having taken in the other’s polite smile and the way it is not quite warm enough to be called friendly.
Definitely cooler than the lava that now warms the side of his body he’s turned to face the glowing river. Schooling his own face into a smile following his surprise had been quick and effortless. The trick was in shifting his eyes into a happier version of himself, Malik had told Myrna once, or at least imagining he’d done so. Despite its lack of authenticity, Malik is sure it looks real, that it is as genuine as the true brief laugh that follows Rhaegal’s dry observation.
There are few reasons a newcomer might arrive after such a storm, and though Malik had not expected to be pinned so quickly, he does not deceive the stranger beyond the appearance of his false happiness.
“My sister. Sickle. Blue, with stripes like mine.” His stripes are rarely visible, black against his black coat, but much of the sun is behind the clouds and the light from the lava casts so little light that they glow faintly along his sides. (maybe also he turns Sickle colored TBD). “Have you seen her?”
The other boy seems friendly, which helps to put him further at ease. He feels his tightly drawn muscles slowly relax, although it's impossible for the tension to entirely abate—not when there is currently a river of lava flowing in front of him. He had never really minded before that it was his father’s plant dragon form that he had inherited, but now, faced with the possibility of his home being flooded by fire, he finds himself slightly envious of his mother’s more traditional, fire-based dragon form. He knows, though, that even though his mother could withstand the heat, she would not risk the safety of the rest of the kingdom. If she had not suggested that everyone evacuate he can only assume it means she trusts the disaster was over.
When the visitor mentions looking for his sister, Rhaegal frowns and gives a shake of his head. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen anyone that looks like that. My mother might be better to ask. She pays closer attention to everyone here.” He tried, but for the most part everyone was a stranger to him, and their faces all blurred together. He had never been very adept at making friends, though that might have been different if he had made more attempts to explore the rest of Beqanna rather than keeping to Tephra.
“When did you last see her?” he asks out of curiosity, deciding that perhaps helping the visitor search for his sister could serve as a way to take his mind off the destruction in his home. Suddenly remembering himself, he offers the stranger a hasty introduction. “My name is Rhaegal, by the way. Savior and Casimira are my parents.” He isn’t sure why he included that last part. Perhaps because he would never call himself a prince—the word felt awkward and a little bit pretentious—but he assumed the other would know who his parents were at least by name, as most knew the kings and queens in Beqanna.
R H A E G A L
I COULD OPEN THE DOOR AND BREATHE IN THE DUST I COULD WALK THROUGH THOSE FLAMES TIL I DON'T FEEL THEIR TOUCH
As Rhaegal relaxes, the warmth in Malik’s eye grows more genuine. He knows that he is too wary, but at least he is growing more adept at letting down his guard. The fear never really goes away, but he is able to push it to the back of his mind when he focuses on other things.
Things like looking for Sickle, who the other young stallion does not know. Malik hides the depth of his disappointment as easily as he does everything else, giving only a regretful shrug of his feathered shoulders as he looks away for a moment. It is not as though he’d really expected to find her here, he tells himself. But he had hoped for something, news of her at least. The possibility that the boy’s mother might have more information though, that fuels the hope again.
So rather than allow the disappointment to swallow him up, he nods, the gesture sharp enough to indicate that yes: he would be better asking his mother, and that he would do so if given the chance.
When did you last see her, the stranger asks. Long enough that he feels guilty, Malik could answer, but instead only offers a genuinely rueful smile and “Years.” Adding more too often invites further questions. And Malik, with no interest in thinking about why he is so far separated from his twin, has even less interest in explaining it to strangers.
Well, acquaintances now, he supposes. An acquaintance with the same familial ties to Tephra that Malik has to Hyaline, he thinks when the boy names Casimira as his mother. That name he recognizes; his mother has said it. “I’m Malik,” he replies, and pauses for a moment. Does he name both his parents? “Mazikeen is my mother.”
Malik
