09-14-2015, 11:27 PM
some are lost in the fire
some are built from it
It is a relief to be talking of kingdom matters. He finds that the more he immerses himself in everything that the Chamber is, the more he emerges from everything that threatens to drag him back into infinite sadness, from the clawing bite of the memories that sometimes stop him from sleeping. To be here, talking politics with his mother, it's clearing his head delightfully.
He isn't surprised that they have sent representatives. The Chamber is still the stronger of the two, no doubt about that, and he nods in agreement when his mother says that she's been biding her time. "A new monarch always means a groundswell. They're more powerful than they were when I visited a few years back, when the land was practically empty, but how much more powerful, and for how long? That remains to be seen."
She speaks again, and he continues to listen. He's genuinely taken aback. He hadn't thought the Deserts and Amazons alliance particularly close the last time he was there, but a lot of things can happen when rulers change. "Interesting." he says, thinking it over in his mind. "We'll know the outcome of that once it happens, I assume?" he's still not entirely sure how the mechanics of the ravens work. He assumes that telepathy is part of the package, but he doesn't know for sure. His thoughts stray along the same lines as his mother. Perhaps that alliance could be broken before it even begins – assuming that it will, in fact, be beginning. There's still so much unknown. "Depending on the results of that meeting, perhaps we should do some visiting of our own." he pauses for a moment, considering. "Although I'm not sure which of those would be the better ally. We've been historically aligned with the Amazons, have we not? Before I was born? They are likely the stronger of the two kingdoms right now, although the presence of two magicians in the Deserts is not to be discounted."
He is surprised when his mother speaks again, and the topic turns to something altogether different. He stiffens unconsciously, aware that she's been aware of his failings, and all the more shamed for it. It's not that he thinks she's trying to shame him; on the contrary, he knows that she means well, but it burns him up inside (heat manipulation and all) to know that his failings have been so tragically public.
For just a moment he is at a loss for words. He doesn't stand there gaping stupidly, but instead watches his mother silently, quiet for a moment as he tries to make sense of what he's just experienced. Theirs has never been a relationship of typical tenderness, and even now, she's not doing anything even close to wrapping her neck around him and pulling him into a horse hug.
"Thank you." he says at length, his rich voice heavy with emotion. It is so many things: the feeling of love from his mother (that bedrock, unquestioned love that he'd always known was there, made manifest in a way he's never seen it before), the weight of his failures (and the fact that others were, must be, noticing), and the memories that inevitably swirl up whenever he thinks about it for too long.
But does he actually want to talk? He isn't sure. It's been improving as he avoids talking about it, but even he knows that improvement could be simple repression masquerading as healing. Perhaps it would do him good. "I…" he begins, before pausing and frowning. "This is not something that I know well." he explains, bluntly. He's the soldier, the dutiful servant, he doesn't know how to let true trauma wash over him. "This is not something I know at all." he says pensively, and the truth of it echoes around their little pine thicket. He doesn't know how to grieve, how to mourn. He is rigid, so stuck in his own image of the perfect soldier and perfect servant that he often forgets to be human – or equine, if you want to be particular. His mask is exquisite, so perfectly wrought, but what can you do when the face beneath the mask is crying? That's not intended, that's not what is meant, the player must always succumb to the part. But what happens when that careful order fails?
His eyes meet his mother's, and their brown depths seem suddenly endless. "It's the sequence of events that led up to me obtaining my new power." he explains, even though that probably didn't need explanation. "They were…somewhat difficult." Understatement of the century. He'd been burned and remade and scratched and broken and tortured in ways that no horse should ever experience, let alone while made of plastic. "It is difficult not to dwell on them." he seems to be slipping deeper into the habitual intellectualism that had so characterized his youth. "It is easier when I am serving the Chamber. But it is still…not easy." His usually confident, smooth, polished voice is almost quiet, and as he says the last, he sounds almost tired – entirely uncharacteristic for him.
Sharing. He's sharing.
"I have hope that it will pass, in time. It has gotten better. It was...quite a lot worse, once." when he'd first retreated to the forest, he'd been all but lost to it. Thoughts of the lot of them had haunted his every moment. Could he have even been of use to The Chamber then? In time they've faded, and in time he's become more adept at handling it when things creep into his dreams, or when he sees something that triggers a memory - and even when memories come unbidden, rising up like ghosts in broad daylight. Oh yes, it's better, but it's not gone - not by a long shot.
He isn't surprised that they have sent representatives. The Chamber is still the stronger of the two, no doubt about that, and he nods in agreement when his mother says that she's been biding her time. "A new monarch always means a groundswell. They're more powerful than they were when I visited a few years back, when the land was practically empty, but how much more powerful, and for how long? That remains to be seen."
She speaks again, and he continues to listen. He's genuinely taken aback. He hadn't thought the Deserts and Amazons alliance particularly close the last time he was there, but a lot of things can happen when rulers change. "Interesting." he says, thinking it over in his mind. "We'll know the outcome of that once it happens, I assume?" he's still not entirely sure how the mechanics of the ravens work. He assumes that telepathy is part of the package, but he doesn't know for sure. His thoughts stray along the same lines as his mother. Perhaps that alliance could be broken before it even begins – assuming that it will, in fact, be beginning. There's still so much unknown. "Depending on the results of that meeting, perhaps we should do some visiting of our own." he pauses for a moment, considering. "Although I'm not sure which of those would be the better ally. We've been historically aligned with the Amazons, have we not? Before I was born? They are likely the stronger of the two kingdoms right now, although the presence of two magicians in the Deserts is not to be discounted."
He is surprised when his mother speaks again, and the topic turns to something altogether different. He stiffens unconsciously, aware that she's been aware of his failings, and all the more shamed for it. It's not that he thinks she's trying to shame him; on the contrary, he knows that she means well, but it burns him up inside (heat manipulation and all) to know that his failings have been so tragically public.
For just a moment he is at a loss for words. He doesn't stand there gaping stupidly, but instead watches his mother silently, quiet for a moment as he tries to make sense of what he's just experienced. Theirs has never been a relationship of typical tenderness, and even now, she's not doing anything even close to wrapping her neck around him and pulling him into a horse hug.
"Thank you." he says at length, his rich voice heavy with emotion. It is so many things: the feeling of love from his mother (that bedrock, unquestioned love that he'd always known was there, made manifest in a way he's never seen it before), the weight of his failures (and the fact that others were, must be, noticing), and the memories that inevitably swirl up whenever he thinks about it for too long.
But does he actually want to talk? He isn't sure. It's been improving as he avoids talking about it, but even he knows that improvement could be simple repression masquerading as healing. Perhaps it would do him good. "I…" he begins, before pausing and frowning. "This is not something that I know well." he explains, bluntly. He's the soldier, the dutiful servant, he doesn't know how to let true trauma wash over him. "This is not something I know at all." he says pensively, and the truth of it echoes around their little pine thicket. He doesn't know how to grieve, how to mourn. He is rigid, so stuck in his own image of the perfect soldier and perfect servant that he often forgets to be human – or equine, if you want to be particular. His mask is exquisite, so perfectly wrought, but what can you do when the face beneath the mask is crying? That's not intended, that's not what is meant, the player must always succumb to the part. But what happens when that careful order fails?
His eyes meet his mother's, and their brown depths seem suddenly endless. "It's the sequence of events that led up to me obtaining my new power." he explains, even though that probably didn't need explanation. "They were…somewhat difficult." Understatement of the century. He'd been burned and remade and scratched and broken and tortured in ways that no horse should ever experience, let alone while made of plastic. "It is difficult not to dwell on them." he seems to be slipping deeper into the habitual intellectualism that had so characterized his youth. "It is easier when I am serving the Chamber. But it is still…not easy." His usually confident, smooth, polished voice is almost quiet, and as he says the last, he sounds almost tired – entirely uncharacteristic for him.
Sharing. He's sharing.
"I have hope that it will pass, in time. It has gotten better. It was...quite a lot worse, once." when he'd first retreated to the forest, he'd been all but lost to it. Thoughts of the lot of them had haunted his every moment. Could he have even been of use to The Chamber then? In time they've faded, and in time he's become more adept at handling it when things creep into his dreams, or when he sees something that triggers a memory - and even when memories come unbidden, rising up like ghosts in broad daylight. Oh yes, it's better, but it's not gone - not by a long shot.
erebor
heat manipulating lord of the chamber
warship x straia
