give me something to believe in; any, wallace

[Sabrael]

Anger is ugly.

He had been choked by it at first.  He had raged against the surprise, against the betrayal, against his own acceptance at leaving the island for the last time.  It was incomprehensible that they should suffer so much, this last bastion of Daleans intent on growing their own sanctuary in this reborn land.  They were already hounded by heartache: first losing the oldest members of their tribe, then losing their collective innocence (when Wallace hurt, they all had).  A cold fire had dropped like ice in his belly when Sabrael had let the dragon fully overwhelm him.  Usually, he ran hot like lava (the beast pooling his every pore with burn).  But this time, for the first time, they are in tandem. 

They are cold clarity, righteous aggression.

He flies until his throat is clotted with clouds and his wings are raw and limp.

The again-horse recovers his strength in the meadow where the remnants of his family have gathered.  He placates and pleads and plays the son he is supposed to be.  Because now is not the time to berate his mother for leaving them vulnerable.  Now is not the time to let loose the questions burning his tongue like some kind of matryoshka dragon inside of him (Where did you go? Why did you betray father?  How are you going to fix everything?)  Now is the time for action and dragging one’s feet forward, even if it is through thick mud.  Anger is ugly.  Sometimes progress is, too.

But he has no time for either.

Sabrael leaves his family in the stinging heat of the gathering grounds.  He is slow through the humid air, reluctant to put so much space between them when it is the last thing they need.  Pangea pulls him closer with claws he’s evaded for too long.  Now they pluck at his tail, move spider-like up his back, closing their sticky fingers ever-tighter around him.  He goes to the wasteland like a man marked for the gallows because where he wants to be fades into the background.  Where he needs to be looms on the horizon until he makes it – until it rises above him. 

Dead faces of dry rock stare at the outsider as he passes underneath.  Pangea is no paradise, he’s heard (not like Ischia had been; anger flares and flutters like a trapped animal in his stomach).  This is unlike anything he could have imagined, though.  It is a soulless place. There is a familiar dryness to the howling wind that reminds him of winter in the Dale.  The promise that, should he not absorb every drop of moisture he has access to, he will surely be leeched of all his fluids by the land. 

Fortunately, he will not be here long enough to find out.

The bay roan instinctively searches for Wallace first, his gold-brown eyes darting between the dust.  They are together in this momentary imprisonment and he will not let her linger long alone.  His heartbeat speeds at the thought, so loud he swears it is echoing off the canyon walls.       

         

Sabrael

[Pollock]

Enter again the sweet forest
     Enter the hot dream
       Come with us

Ahhhhh, yes. That beast, Anger.

He knows it intimately. It never served him well. It is an unruly, wild, base thing that rumbles like a monster chained in his belly; that gnaws and gnaws but, he finds, can never be sated, really. It is untamed – an ancient pool in which everyone is baptized as a babe, unfurling itself like an instinct in all.

Even in those who fancy themselves tempered souls. It’s in them, too.

For so long, it had been the tide that pulled him; pushed through his veins like a drug he did not want by his mother, who would rather see him soothed by its company than to be in need of hers. 
(A funny thought, that – to be in need of her. For her to have been any use to him.)
But the anger she had given to him had been his darkest passenger as he grew into a young man, seething. Seething with anger and with resentment; with the toxicity, like black smoke, that these things breath. 

Spoiled.

He was spoiled by it. Ruined. Made to be a worm writhing in mud, senseless and overwhelmed. Made to be an ignoble bastard, shackled by his weaknesses and by the stories of her wrong doing painted on his skin with marks – lipstick and burns; tooth’s bite an hooves’ touch – that could not be seen, for they were his and hers alone.

It never served him well, though he did not discard it entirely. (Cannot.)
Fear, he finds, is a much better emotion to subsume to; a much better sword to die by.

Besides, he had decided years past, to cast off (or bury deeply) the moorings of his mother’s influence. Anger, in its uncontrolled form; weakness, and the sensation of needing; the idea of home, for she had wrecked that, too. This, perhaps, is why he comes to the dragon-stallion like two alien organisms meeting on the moon’s surface.

He feels too much, right now, this stranger. He is hot with it – laden with it.
Pollock has shed it like a snake in the rocks of his waste, he comes to him bare-eyed and straight-lipped, spent empty by his labors over the oasis and by his searching for answers in the sea. He is wet up to his knees with holy water, fresh and clean; salt flakes off his horns from the northern ocean. His wing was momentarily cleansed by the pool in his scantum, but it is thick with a paste of dust and grime, now. 
“Can I help you?” he drawls, low and weary, and there is no sharpness on his tongue now, nor is there welcome in the words or an indication that his question is an earnest one.

the gift-giver

[Kerberos]

Motherfucker. Like we don’t have enough to deal with. Some bitch thinks she’s clever, and now Lacey has to make an unnecessarily arduous trek to some fucking wasteland when she’s pregnant enough that she has to travel at a slow waddle. Fucking brilliant. Thanks, Pangea. Won’t forget this shit.

Well I’m not about to let her go alone. So off we go, nice and easy pace, and I swear to fuck, if she goes into labor and has our kid in Pangea I’m gonna make them suffer. Even if it’s only by inflicting my presence on them. Loudly and boisterously. Until they regret even thinking about “inviting” my Lacey to visit. Because we’re a package deal, bitches. Especially when she’s all pregnant and (do not tell her I even so much as suggested this but) vulnerable and shit.

Don’t get me wrong, Lacey can take care of herself. But fuck if I’m gonna make her go off into unknown enemy territory on her own just because some grabby-hands little shit says so. So I escort her, leaving our delightful twins in Reilly’s capable care. Poor bastard. He really is too nice, and I’ll find a way to make it up to him. Eventually. Maybe. Whatever, he’s my bro, I’m his, it’ll balance out. Besides, he loves the kids and they love him. Our weird, cozy little family.

Which is once again temporarily split apart because of some bullshit fuckwad-ery.
Let’s get this over with, shall we?

With as shiny and brightly colored as I am, subtlety isn’t much in my nature. Loud and dramatic by nature, no sense fighting it, might as well draw the eyes, yeah? And if it keeps the attention from dwelling too hard on Lacey, or eyes from lingering a little too intently on her very pregnant belly, well all the better. So with a quick little brush of my lips to her shoulder and a wink, I stomp into the shithole that stole her, keeping half an eye on her while doing what I do best.

“Sexy Beast!” I shout, delighted to see the oh so lickable dragon man is already here and looking right pissed off. “It’s been too long, you magnificent motherfucker. How’ve you been? Why don’t you introduce me to your…” I trail off and give the stranger a leering once over and grin. “...delicious-looking new friend?”

Bite my shiny metal ass.

[Kellyn]

I wish I could feel it all for you, I wish I could do it all for you

She was only gone long enough to announce her success before heading back, but she had stopped to check on the girl when she first arrived, and so she is not the first to greet them. And she doesn’t bring Cleary with her when the now-familiar scent of Ischia reaches her, not when it is accompanied by the voice of her King. It would be stupid to think he does not already know of her daughter’s existence, but some part of Kellyn doesn’t want to draw attention to the girl. Perhaps it is the only part of her that might be maternal, the part that remembers how much her family had loved and cared for her and thinks occasionally about how she can’t be that for her children.

Or perhaps it’s just selfishness – she already can see that Cleary will be special, special like Kellyn, and she doesn’t want everyone else to know about it. Her power had been a secret for so long, and it was something that she was sure she would teach the girl. No reason to show your cards before the end.

So there are three when she arrives – the bay stallion who emanates anger like a volcano emits steam, the King, and the flamboyantly cheerful purple stallion who looks disconcertingly like her youngest daughter’s father. Of course she barely remembers his name (Kirin, it was Kirin) but even a one-time fling it’s hard to forget a dude who’s purple. Now she is doubly glad Cleary is safely tucked away somewhere else.

She ignores the purple one. He isn’t Sabrael or Wallace, and he isn’t Pollock. Instead her green eyes linger on Sabrael a moment, before she looks again at Pollock, watching him; “They’re here for a mandatory visit because I stole them from Ischia.” she drawls it, sounding only half interested. “At least he is. And the girl. The purple one I don’t know anything about.”

Kellyn

the girl who walks in time and talks to ghosts
daughter of cagney and elite

[Wallace]

Wallace

God, she was so tired. Couldn't they have just stayed home? Damn. Ok, fine. Here she was. Lathered in a sheen of sweat, pregnant and huge and miserable as hell. Her legs ached, her back was killing her, and thank god Kirby hadn't tried to hold conversation with her the whole way here or maybe he wouldn't be breathing now to be, you know, her protector or whatever.

She sighed gratefully as he signaled their arrival with a brief touch to her shoulder as he made his grand entrance, stopping immediately to fade into whatever background she could manage to disappear into. Her head bowed as she caught her breath. God, even her stomach hurt. That probably wasn't a good sign. No, no. It's fine. All fine. Not contractions. No panicking. Just breathe, stray behind and let Kirby do his thing, direct what attention away from her that he could.

He was turning out to be a very different person than she first had a run-in with. Still his ridiculously sassy self, but less... less all the things she didn't want to remember, actually. More, this. Protective and stuff. Fine with her, she wasn't kicking any ass til this baby came anyway. Could use the help, though she'd never admit it.

Goddamn her stomach hurt.
No, it's fine. All fine.
Not contractions. Can't be.

Ah, man. She could smell Sabrael near, hear Kirby greet him in his extra-friendly way. She wanted to look, wanted to see how he was doing, how he looked, if he was well. If he didn't want her near. Just wanted to see him. Just see him. But she couldn't. Probably cowardice. Couldn't bear to see whatever she'd find in those hell-and-brimstone eyes of his, that damn breath-taking face that made her feel safe. Coward.

Ow. Ow..
Ok you know what? Time to go home.

She groaned inwardly as Little Red spoke, fighting back the exhaustion and this damn pain that wouldn't go away. It wasn't contractions. Couldn't be. But she sure as hell wasn't sticking around. She needed to be home, not standing here with her hair plastered to her face and her eyes sharp with quiet suffering. "The purple one I don't know anything about."

That's Kirby, and he's taking me home now, she said a little breathlessly, finally raising hazy, brown eyes to see the other stranger nearby too. She looked him over silently a moment, spared a glance to the girl and her child. God, but she still couldn't look at Sabrael and that was all she wanted to do. Oh, ouch.

Thanks for uh, whatever the hell this is. Was. Nice home, love the... dirt. But 'fraid it's time for us to go home. Bye, now.

And she turned to waddle her ass back home where it belonged.