"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
like a heartbeat drives you mad, in the stillness of remembering what you had, and what you lost
The sun is low in the sky, encircled with a warm glow that illuminates the otherwise dreary haze that sidles slowly across the horizon. Vivid hues of tangerine and cerise drape across the atmosphere, its delicate light touching the very lining of the thick clouds that have gradually eased in from the east – a gentle rumbling overhead gives warning to an oncoming storm; the only semblance of winter in an otherwise temperature, humid climate.
The moisture in the air is palpable and the dampness caresses the surface of her golden skin, leaving small beads of sweat in its wake. The finely preened feathers that line the hollowed bones of her wings press firmly against a winding, misshapen sapling, scratching an itch that her teeth alone cannot reach. Beneath the canopy of her stark white feather appendages, her belly hangs low and wide, swollen with an unborn child that uncomfortably stirs within. Discomfort would be an understatement; agitation is an enduring, constant sediment in the blood that moves seamlessly through the stitching of her veins.
A weary sigh emerges from her tired lungs as her hazel eyes search the seemingly endless plain, quietly admiring the way the tepid breeze urges the long, thin stalks of golden vegetation to sway to and fro. The sky thunders once more, as the heavy and deep reverberations seem to rattle the very core of the tectonic plates laying beneath her. Her gold-flecked eyes glance up towards the rolling, darkening clouds above, and the pale line of her whiskered lips hardens in disdain as a speckling of raindrops strokes her cheek, trailing down the curve of her jaw.
Irate, she finally pries herself away from the dreary, dry shrub she had settled near, descending down along the curve of a slight slope as her spine aches from the sheer weight of her unborn child, and her hips seemingly creak and cry out in protest with each tedious, labored step. She is usually lithe, agile – everything that she is not in this moment, and though she longs to once again feel as if her body is hers and hers alone again, she is too aware of how worthwhile it will all be in the end. It had only taken one evening beneath a warm, cloudless sky, wrought with emotion, exposed and vulnerable, Magnus had covered her, and soon she would bear their third child (a girl, she was certain).
Her heart aches in wonder – how time goes on, reckless and continuous, as each new moment becomes little more than a distant memory by the days’ end.
A sharp gasp is pulled from her lungs as her shoulder collides with something solid, firm – and she immediately flushes in color, a reddened tint painted across her pallid cheek in frustration and embarrassment. Clearing the coarseness from her throat as her hazel eyes observes the hardened line of muscle and bone, following the way his russet skin gives way to a deep indigo along his long legs and mouth.
”Warrick, is it?” she says, adjusting her posture in a feeble attempt to appear as stately as she hoped she would. ”I apologize, I was .. distracted,” a pause. ”I don’t believe we have met – but I keep close watch.” She gives him a coy smile, as the embarrassment begins to ebb away slowly, as if it were the waning tide of the sea. ”My name is Ellyse. I am the Head of War – er,” She frowns, the ridge of her brow furrowing. “at least I am when I don’t look like this.”
.
The warmth of Tephra was becoming familiar to him, so unlike any place he had ever lived before. He was enjoying the fact that he had barely felt the winter’s chill brush its icy fingertips across his skin, only breathing in thin and frigid air when he had left Tephra to explore the forest. He found himself wandering close to the volcano, lingering at its base to watch the lava as it flowed out of the pulsing depths. He was enthralled by such a towering natural phenomenon and spent most of his time distracting himself by learning the different paths that the molten lava took as it coursed through Tephra’s tropical landscape. He had not been in Tephra long, and besides meeting Magnus, Warrick had not yet met anyone else and was rather okay with keeping to himself for the time being.
Currently Warrick was following a new path that he had not taken yet, his dark blue eyes fixated on the viscous magma as it slowly moved in its rivulet from the volcano. He was moving unhurriedly, with no real purpose but to track where the glowing orange stream led him. Warrick almost didn’t notice the grumbling of thunder overhead in the distance as he walked on, head low to the ground with his indigo muzzle nearly touching the bright green stalks of grass beneath him. He picked at the tender roots as he passed, munching absentmindedly as he moved. It wasn’t until icy drops of rain begin to speckle his auburn coat does the stallion look up towards the sky questioningly, a slight shiver rolling across his skin.
The storm continued to play on the outskirts of Tephra, rumbling menacingly as it tumbled and rolled through the sky. Warrick continues to move, though his focus has left the trail of lava and he was now looking up to the sky with what looked like a thoughtless expression (Warrick was never thoughtless) on his face. The pain that he felt as he stared up into the yawning chasm that was the sky was the feeling that he got every time his gaze went upward. Were they watching him? Did they miss him? Are they coming back for him?
He continues his slow pace, chest churning as his heart thrums in his ribcage. Slowly but surely, a stranger was making his way towards him just as he was making his way towards them.
He collides with something dense and warm, his blue eyes flashing downwards from the sky with surprise. A split second passes and he’s heard his name, blue-tipped ears pricking forward curiously. His eyes take in her appearance, nostrils inhaling as the scent of her overcomes the scent of the grass, wet from the soft rain. She is golden, near-white mane and forelock framing her face. His indigo gaze traces the wings curled in closely at her sides, white feathers vibrant against the gold of her skin. She apologizes for running into him and Warrick lowers his head slightly, equally as embarrassed. “Don’t be sorry,” he says to her, “I’m always distracted.”
It was the truth, but little did she know what truly was the distraction. “Ellyse,” he says with a slight nod of his head in greeting. At the furrowing of her brow, his gaze falls to the roundness of her abdomen, a soft smile finding his cobalt lips knowingly. “I’m sure you are still a force to be reckoned with,” he admits sincerely. He has met many fierce and formidable mares, and he knew not to underestimate them in any way. He thinks back to Beyah and Orani momentarily, but he quickly shoves down their memory forcefully to deal with later.
Rain still dusts them with icy droplets, the storm still boiling in the distance. It most likely will never make its way through the warm temperatures of Tephra, but its threatening look in the distance was in no way inviting to Warrick. With a slight tilt of his head, he glances sideways at Ellyse through his black, tangled forelock. “I’m still getting to know the area – any place around here to get away from the rain?” He smiles at her comfortably, realizing that he was glad to be conversing with someone for a change, despite not knowing much about her yet.
like a heartbeat drives you mad, in the stillness of remembering what you had, and what you lost
The sky is a tumultuous wonder, rife with movement as the thick, billowing clouds press eagerly against one another as if they were starving, wanton lovers – their touch fervid and hot, and as tepid as the humid air standing too still below. The moisture in the air is palpable, and even without the trickling of droplets, there are several beads of sweat seeping from her pores, leaving her as uncomfortable and as irritable as ever. The storm has already begun to rumble and roar, with trembling echoes of thunder reverberating through the dense, fertile soil, and traveling up along the length of her slender legs and through her body.
Her heart stammers slightly as the vibrations seize her, rattling the very sinewy muscle and tissue that possesses it. Within her, her unborn child rouses, as startled as she is when the ground below her trembles. With her hazel eyes narrowed with disdain, they meet with his – icy, blue – stark and vibrant in color – and soon her irritation has waned, leaving a momentary stoicism as her gold-flecked gaze greedily observes every line of his lean, yet broad frame. Every hardened line of muscle and bone is voraciously sought out by her, and she etches the image of him within her memory – should she need it later.
I’m always distracted, he utters, and there is a part of her that wonders why – though she could blame her political position for her (undeniably innate) desire to know his weaknesses, the truth is that it is ingrained in her; etched into the very marrow of her bones. Alas, he is civil (cordial, even) and she is too tired and worn to care to dissect him, and so her usual demeanor falters and in place of it, a rare and faint smile can be seen hidden in the corners of her pale mouth.
A force to be reckoned with.
A genuine rumble of laughter escapes her, the mirth reaching the wide rims of her eyes, meeting his steady gaze once more.
”You have no idea,” she murmurs, amusement laced delicately between each slow and easy syllable. ”I like to think that I am.”
Her attention is drawn away from him, discomfort stirring inside of her as she can feel his roving eyes searching the swell of her belly. Though motherhood is an identity she bears proudly, the entire process is not only exhausting, but humbling– her once slender hips and smooth torso now felt distended beyond what she had ever thought possible (neither Canaan nor Hawke felt as heavy to her as this).
The icy droplets of rain fall in earnest now, dampening her tousled, pale locks, which lay wetly against the golden sheen of her skin. Her hazel eyes study his for a long moment, her mind rifling through the various nooks cut into the volcanic territory, before giving a deliberate nod. ”There are a few; come with me.”
With a gesture of her cheek towards the east, she begins a slow and leisurely pace around the rim of the mountain, dew building up along her spine and trickling down the length of her body as the rain falls heavier by the moment. She is quiet, and aside from the occasional glance given to the indigo painted stallion beside her (to ensure he is near; to be certain he is not too far behind – ever wary, she is), she permits her mind to wander and the silence to linger between them.
Finally, she descends into a large pocket carved into the side of the mountain, tucking herself within its shadow and shielding herself away from the growing onslaught of rain. The silence does not carry, however, and soon, her curiosity becomes impossible for her to ignore.
”Tell me about yourself, Warrick.” she says, though her eyes are still searching the dark horizon and the thundering storm as it crawls across the length of the sky. ”Magnus is a good judge of character – there must be something about you that he would invite you to stay with us.”
.
The churning and angry sky that was slowly coming closer to them echoes in Warrick’s very bones. He feels the power of the storm even though it was still miles away, but rumbling deep and threateningly in the distance. Every growl of thunder that rolled vibrates the air around him and strikes a chord in his chest, a feeling that was almost physically painful to the blue and mahogany stallion. He wonders how it is that he can refrain from showing the aching expression on his tired face, yet at the same time is not surprised he has learned how to pretend.
Warrick follows her dutifully without a sound, curious to see what hidden parts of Tephra he may have not encountered yet. Ellyse was comfortable and fluid as she picks her path – almost methodical, as if muscle memory has kicked in and her body knew exactly where to take her while her mind wanders. While he keeps her golden figure in his eyesight, the silence envelops them and he lets it. There was something calming about the approaching storm as well as Ellyse. She had known of him (or maybe of just a blue painted stallion with the melancholy to match), which rather pleasantly surprised him.
The air feels heavy with moisture, and just as Warrick tucks himself in close beside Ellyse, the rain begins to fall in fat, heavy droplets. He too, keeps his indigo gaze on the storm, watching it calmly as it swells. They stand close beneath the slope of rock; though not close enough to be thought of anything else besides acquaintances.
She breaks the silence, and turns his eyes towards her, even though she still studies the sky with her thoughtful gaze. He would have continued to stand in stillness alongside her, listening to the rain and thunder as it passed overhead. She has great hopes for him, he can tell – another to add to the ranks, to learn and to train. He peers out from a tangled mass of black forelock inquisitively; maybe she could give him purpose.
“He may be a good judge, but I’m not exactly what he has seen in me as of yet,” Warrick admits honestly, his blue-tipped ears flicking back slightly. His gaze breaks and falls to the ground, which was running with the rainwater’s tiny streams as it sluices through to gather at the lowest point. “Maybe he’s let me stay here so I can find out,” he says quietly, bringing his chin up to once again look at the storm.
“Head of War, then?” He mischievously looks at her at a sideways glance, a small smile on his cobalt lips as he pauses. “As you said, Magnus is a good judge of character.”
