"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
There was little to say for his homecoming - but that was nothing new. He was a shadow - a murky figure in the depths of the ocean; something you knew was down there, but could never quite decipher. And now? Now he had risen, he had breached the waves and faced the shocking slip of surface air - he had returned. There was little fanfare, little acknowledgement, and no surprise - but that was perhaps how he wanted it. Silence, like an ever present womb, had become his saviour.
He was not one to swallow his pride. In fact, there was only one prior occasion in which he did so - and it was shockingly similar to this. (Similar because it seemed only to Ruan would the magician king relent - only to the wolf would he admit that he did not truly know his son). This was not the only strange thing about this situation. But the reason of his visit - Kilter. Kilter, the eldest boy of the triplets, the last kin he had sired. Why he cared - he did not know.
Perhaps it was the strangeness of the boy - who crept among trees and bayed at the moon with the wolves. It could have been the strangeness of it all - he had sired triplets before, but not in such a unique occasion. Or maybe, and most likely - it was the fact of how blatantly the boy had shirked his father. How easily he found solace in the dark of the forest, the warmth of the wolves - and mostly, the company of Ruan.
Did it irk Eight? Slightly, maybe, he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t put a finger on it - and perhaps never would be able to. But there was a tug towards Kilter that EIght could not ignore - which meant there was a force to tear him towards Ruan - the only one that the young telekinetic seemed to care for.
And so Eight went, following the drifting scent of the stallion who had once been under his rule (though the magician didn’t quite think of it like that). Following the scent (which only had been etched in his mind as it was the one link to his earth moving son), he entered a land that staggered under the weight of tall trees - giant things that loomed far taller than anything the magician had seen. It was quiet, snow blanketing the limbs of the trees and coating the forest floor in a silence so thick.
It was here he waited. He knew the dappled stallion would find him eventually - if there was anywhere that Eight was sure Ruan would roam, it would be the forest.
01-05-2017, 09:42 PM (This post was last modified: 01-05-2017, 09:42 PM by Ruan.)
Ruan
Eight.
He greeted him with an easy smile, surprising himself at how pleased he was to see the magician again. He hadn't bothered with a carefully quiet approach. The man was all-powerful, after all, and had surely sensed him coming in whatever way it was that magicians did so. He himself would never truly know.
As he got closer, his brows drew together in concern. Something was off, not quite right, and naturally he immediately thought of Kilter. A pang of guilt bolted through him like a shock of electricity, for instantly worrying over the other man's son, for failing to find him as Eight had asked. His shoulders weighed a little heavier, his eyes dulled a shade more. But there was a chance he'd come for some other reason, of course. Hopefully, for some other reason. News, perhaps. Anything.
But suddenly he couldn't find his voice. He didn't want to ask a question that might have a painful answer. Had he seen him, had he returned home. Did he even remember Ruan. He glanced away, swallowing those thoughts before turning back. Maybe it was something else. Something with their Tephra and Taiga, perhaps. He bowed his head in respect before speaking again.
What can I do for you, King. He wasn't anymore, and yet perhaps he always would be.
Eight looked to the horizon - slashed with tall trees and flecked with falling snow - and there you were. Your voice rang out to him as you approached, and the magician was almost surprised by how easily you welcomed him; a man you had not seen in years. But the easiness did not last long - the threat of worry slung onto your face and your voice seemed to catch with the wind. You had always seemed empathetic to the once king, so perhaps it was just initial worry - or perhaps, the black stallion thought, you knew something worrisome of Kilter that he did not. “Ruan. There’s no need for that anymore.” And there wasn’t. It was no surprise that Eight had not always been the best of kings. He usually seemed to be a placeholder; a protector. While he had ruled countless times, he had mostly served as a threat to other kingdoms - for who would tackle a magician.
A magician - could he call himself that now? If he was still a magician, he could have the power to dig through the land of Beqanna and find Kilter. He could pluck the young boy’s thoughts from thin air and beckon him home. But the magic lay dormant in his veins. He had been startled by this at first, as all the equines of Beqanna had been when they were stripped of their powers. But now? Now he almost liked the normalcy of his life - the lack of power, the lack of requests and bargaining and seeking him out. He almost enjoyed it, except in times like these. “ I followed what I could of your scent and it brought me here.” He shrugged towards the woods around them, unaware that these very woods were ruled by you standing here before him. How strange, that it was now you who was king. “I’ve come to see if you had word from Kilter. I have not seen him - before or after my absence. I know you had always had eyes on him. I’m wondering now if that still holds true.” Eight tried well to keep the strain from his eyes, his voice, the lines of his face - for how could he explain how much he cared now about a boy he had rarely cared for?
A light smirk was his silent answer to Eight's dismissal of the honorific. This was becoming a tradition of a sort for them: Ruan calls him King and Eight refuses it. Each time they met again, it seemed.
Belatedly, Ruan realized the magician had yet to have his magic restored as he stated that he'd followed Ruan's scent to find him. It explained the odd sense of disconnect, and yet how very solid and real Eight appeared. Often, he'd seen him manifest from mists and shadows, though here he stood as any other man. He would have his own reasons for not going for his magic, Ruan certainly hadn't chosen the return of his own, and so he didn't ask about it.
It brought the memory back, and he shut it down before it could do more than make him hyper-aware of the scars at his shoulders. The demon had violently ripped the wings from him, taken them as his own, and forced Ruan's magic back on him as.. payment. A trade he'd never have chosen for himself. But there were more important things to think of just then.
"I’ve come to see if you had word from Kilter. I have not seen him - before or after my absence. I know you had always had eyes on him. I’m wondering now if that still holds true."
Ruan's heart chilled and hardened painfully. Shame forced his eyes away from that powerful gaze. He had failed the boy, failed the once-king. It was true, he'd always had an eye on the boy however odd it may have been. He'd never had children of his own and Kilter had unintentionally wedged himself deep in the wolf's heart as though he had sired him. It was unnatural perhaps, and yet had felt so right.
He shook his head, swallowing his disappointment in himself. I was unable to track him, he admitted softly. Failure. The snow had fallen so quickly, so heavily. Kilter's scent was long gone. He didn't say that each time he passed through the woods he still analyzed the smells so hungrily for the one he could never find. Each time he wandered to the field and searched the faces for the eyes with wisdom beyond his years. Who would that sullen little boy be... if he'd even survived the winter on his own.
I fear he's dead. Stated so simply, and yet crushed his heart with the weight of it. But he wouldn't give the magician reason to hope for the impossible. That burden would be Ruan's.
Side note: I am blizzard snowed in drinking so I sorry for this mess.
Tradition is as tradition was. From the start, you had deferred to Eight. As soon as your lupine heart had encroached on the Valley, you, the now-king, had been low-stalked and steady. You had, in fact, approached upon the birth of the triplets. Perhaps that was why you felt so strongly towards Kilter. You had breached upon his very birth - the moment the young grullo’s feet had touched earth, his eyes opened, his lungs yawning breath for the very first time. It was you, Ruan, who Kilter had first breached eyes upon. Not his mother, not his siblings, and not his father. It was you.
And each time therein, you called him king, and he shirked it off. He was no king, not to you, not to anyone. In fact, it could be true to say that you had done more for the Valley than he. You were the one amidst the fields, conversing to new recruits. You were the one watching after the little prince - slinking through the trees, keen eyes peering towards the small telekinetic.
And now? Now did you still watch him? The world had changed so much. The lands, the gifts, the magic, the traits, the seasons. Everything - everyone - was different. Did that include you, Ruan? Were you different now? Eight could not say - he had no magic to wield, he could not tell whether being a king, ruling a land, living the years, had changed you little to none - or so much altogether. You had lived through things that Eight did not know (now, he was as mortal as any) - and Eight had been gone (so truely, was he living through anything that you did not?).
You shame was palpable - the old magician read it on your face, saw it in the tensing of your muscle, the twitch of your face - you felt responsible. But should you have? You were not his father - you were not of his blood - and in fact, you owed Eight little to nothing, the king and you had never truly had a relationship outside of the bond of Kilter. And yet still, you seemed wracked with the burden that this was your fault. But was it Eight who should have shouldered that blame? Kilter was of his loins, and yet the magician had failed him time and time again.
Your words lay bold and stark in the silence between - heavy like the falling snow. The snow that could be the very demise of the little wolf child. Dead. It would be an easy thing for the small boy to fall prey to the winter. The cold, the scarce food, the wolves he once ran with he could now be running from. “Dead.” Eight lets the word roll in his mouth, feeling the shame of it. Dead, because of him. Because for once, his lack of paternal emotion had ended in death. “ I don’t know.” He was at a loss for words - the words that so bluntly fell from your mouth, you - the one who truly cared for the boy, could face the possibility more than Eight. “Thank you, Ruan.” His words were crisp - back to the shelled and hardened man he always had been, always would be. “ If you do hear from him - see him - anything. Please let me know.” He looks away again, the horizon heavy with an impending storm. “Perhaps it is for the best. He was always quite off.” He looks towards you again - “Thank you, again.”
And perhaps that was the end of it. Perhaps Kilter had been claimed by the howling winter and darkened forest.
Eight was visibly troubled by this news, and he felt guilty for saying it without proof of the boy's demise. He did, of course, hope it wasn't true. Each day, he wished Kilter would come running, chasing his scent to the Taiga or through the Forest. But he never came. And Ruan never saw him, scented him. Gone without a trace. It was devastating, perhaps even to his true father.
He thanked Ruan, though it only made the wolf feel more guilty. "If you do hear from him -see him- anything. Please let me know."
Ruan nodded solemnly. He didn't say he'd keep looking, though he would. Always. How could he not, for Kilter. Even now, with children adopted and filling the Taiga, the wolf pup was a gaping wound. Irreplacable. Unforgettable.
"Perhaps it is for the best. He was always quite off. Thank you, again."
Ruan's ears flicked back at what he said, but he held his silence. He wouldn't say he was off, no. Perfect. A loner, perhaps. Sometimes a bit sullen and brooding. But not off. Simply a prince who found family in an odd place, away from his silently-speaking siblings. Where the language of body ruled, and he didn't need a voice, within someone's mind or ears. Where he too, could speak without speaking.
Ruan would keep looking for that scent. Would always keep hoping a wolf would find his way home. Wherever that may be.
