"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
He had tried, but in the end, met with failure - he simply wasn’t meant to be caged in by beautiful country and a pair of pretty eyes.
Both of them had known it; had known it was only a matter of time before he strayed.
Why he comes back though, was something he would never know - he has his suspicions after all, but keeps them to himself. Of course he is the same big bay stallion with the impressive set of horns spiraling up and out from his brow, but he is a little more rough in appearance from the way the dust of travel has stuck to his skin. He was definitely weathered, and more than a little weary as he found himself amongst the frivolities of the meadow, shying away from the throngs of conversation that made the space around him noisome and thick.
Mandan found himself beside a river that cut through the grassland, staring at a face in the water that he no longer recognized. He thought of seeking his mother out and asking for her counsel but was quick to cast off that thought and with brooding intensity at his own reflection. There was always the option of going to the Falls and finding her, except he could not beg for forgiveness - it simply wasn’t in him, a genetic flaw perhaps, but he would never apologize for not being able to stay when it wasn’t in his nature to stay but to roam. Oh he had tried! Even tried to be a dutiful stallion and find recruits for what was always her home, and hardly his no matter how much he tried to remain there.
But in the end, he knew he’d leave anyway and he had.
So why come back?
He thought of asking himself that question aloud and smashed his own reflection to smithereens with a hoof, as he stalked into the river and managed to rinse a good amount of the grime off his skin. The large bay lingered in the river, languishing in its slow autumn-cold current and could not help how his thoughts kept turning to her then away, sliding back to a small upturned face that was yellow and white and smiling - his son, and he nearly looked over his shoulder, expecting the colt to be there but they had already parted ways as nature dictates, some time ago.
He was alone, as he had been from the time Scalped kicked him away from her side when he was more than old enough to go off and see the world by himself.
Zaravich often times gets bored at the Dale, the horses are few in numbers and so she wonders in the meadow in hopes to run into someone. The small black mare was galloping into the entrance of the meadow, she threw her head up in a playful manner and gave a loud whinny whipping her tail around. She did not expect anyone to be around as it was now fall and the temperatures were dropping. She found the amount of horses who came out slowing, and it was usually just her in the empty meadow.
The mare came to a screeching halt as she noticed a horse in the river. This was a horse she had never seen before. Zara was new to the magical horses, she has seen a lot of different types but never one with horns. Not only did this horse have horns, but they were exceptionally long and she oddly found them mesmerizing. She wondered how long he had been in the river, it had to have been of freezing temperatures. The autumn breeze made the water cold to the touch, she could not imagine stepping into the water unless she absolutely needed to.
She wanted to run and hide but she figured she blew her cover when she gave a whinny at the entrance. She moved closer to the stallion but still kept her distance. She gave a snort, little clouds from her heat meeting the brisk air came from her nostrils "he....hello" she spoke with a nervous voice. She was a pretty outgoing mare but was unsure how to approach this horse with horns.
BETTER BEWARE, I GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT DEVIL-MAY-CARE WITH A LUST FOR LIFE
The meadow was a land filled with memories. He haunted her still, the wild scent of sandalwood and patchouli taunting her mind, crippling her heart. The cage locked and the key discarded long ago. Ygritte had blamed herself. Perhaps she had been unfair too, demanding for his happiness in turn for his life. But in the end she was not enough for him.
He drifted away until she could no longer smell him on her skin, till the only thing that help conjure his memory was that of their child. The girl had grown to that of a leggy and wild yearling. Mandan would have been proud of his nomadic daughter and her restless spirit.
But now, she finds herself in the meadow. The bay form drifting like water logged wood on the ocean edge. No set destination or reason but just to simply feel the touch of the autumn chill on her body. Honey tinted pools moving over nameless faces, returning greetings with the nod of her flower crowned poll as tiny wild flowers spouted at her feet with each hoof fall. Ygritte did not fancy the drab of autumn so the touch of greenery and flora at her feet was a result of this.
Ygritte moves away from the courting couples, eager and overzealous. There was peace in the solitude of being alone and disconnected at times and perhaps that is why she is here. The scent of estrus was thick and heavy so when the permanence of sandalwood and patchouli twines through the fog of heat, the mare snaps in the direction of which it drifted. Lids widen slightly as her body instinctively is turning, seeking. It had been so long since she had smelled his phantom scent. Achingly, the woman moves towards what she knows subconsciously where it will lead. Fear leaps first then excitement then back again.
As though floating, limbs tear the bay and salmon form across the land. She must see if he is really here time. The horns appear over the crest of a small embankment and she knows. She knows! Slick with sweat and on wobbling legs does the form finally halt and begin a slow descent down the grounds edge but before she can even finish the trek there is another. A small black mare approaching him, talking (though from her place she can not hear them) and the smile that had started to curl her lips, his name that was about to be called from her mouth escapes in barely a whisper. Confusion and wetness coat the light amber eyes as her jaw falls slightly agape and the last bits of grass withers and dies at her feet. Her mind screams at her to move, go, do something but she can not. She is paralyzed and stricken with pain, the clench of her iron clad heart finally crushed to nothing but dust and bits of debris.
Finally...finally things start to work again. Feeling enters her legs once more, the fog clears her mind even as the tears spill down the russet cheeks, dampening them to a bloodwood finish. Seemingly with all the weight of Beqanna, the woman straightens herself and forces herself to move.
Away, away, away.
She tries to melt, disappear, blend back from where she came. Had he noticed her? Scented her? Her stomach is sick and her head is pounding. The flower crown she wore had long fallen off during her sprint but her salmon hued tresses were tangled with flower petals and bits of ivy. The trickle of tears has fully dampened her cheeks, Ygritte bit down in effort to muffle the small whelps that were now threatening to escape as she whimpered her sobs.
The cold of the river should have shocked him but it hardly registered because of the coldness that sat inside him like a heavy stone. He had disappeared, gone like a bad dream that left a bitter taste in the mouth and he knew there was no way she could forgive him for that, so there was no point to feeling again. His mother had told him to stop being so cruel and to beg for her forgiveness if he really loved her, but his damn pride kept getting in the way and he balked at the idea of going back to the Falls and finding her there. Rumor had already reached him that she was crowned queen as he had known she would always be. Knowing that meant knowing there was no place for him there, he was too wild at heart and too wild in nature to wear those chains for her. He had tried, and failed, and his failure was a wolf that ate at him constantly - all snapping teeth and pain.
He smells her long before he thinks to turn and look for her; it is merely a mare and not the mare that he had hoped it to be, and therefore, he remains carefully aloof and continues to stare into the water, starting to see beyond his reflection to the dark-moving currents below. Mandan thinks that if he ignores her, she’ll just go away but she doesn’t - she does the opposite and calls out to him, and he falls back on old manners that are hard to kill despite how desperate he is to wallow in his aloneness. He could hear the nerves in her voice and does nothing to soothe her as he turns his great horned head towards her. The fact that she was a pretty thing is lost on him - prettiness comes and goes and he has had his share of it, and now there is nothing and he looks on her dispassionately. “Hello,” is all he manages, unable to care how gruff it sounds coming from his throat.
There is a clatter of dirt clods sliding down the riverbank and he swings his head towards the noise, stunned - it is like looking at a ghost, but it is her, bay and pink and as lovely as she has always been from the first moment he looked at her all those long years ago in this same meadow. His mouth gapes open and nothing comes out, words fail him for the first time and as quick as she has come, she is gone again and he’s not sure why. Her wildflower scent finds him, tickles his nostrils and with a powerful push of his haunches, he gives a great leaping effort to leave the river and find the embankment to scramble up it. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs briefly in passing to the black mare before he gives chase to the salmon-pointed bay that flees before him like a ghost, swift and furious in her tears. Mandan can hear her sobbing in her flight and every cry catches at his heart, as he runs after her.
It is only when he has lost sight of her but can still hear her whimpering that he slows, calls her name softly in hopes that she will answer him - “Ygritte…” and there is so much weight in that single word, her name, a tentative offering of all the love he has left in him (which at this point is very little, he doesn’t deserve love and it strikes him like an arrow - he isn’t deserving and never was). And it pierces him, the knowing, that he should just let her go…
Ygritte
