From the daily press, the deepest nest, the keeper's keep.
The soft duskiness rounds the edges of incoming winter. It peels away from the grey and dull some of the cold, replacing the chill with a heady beauty — and it is better. Despite the fact that it is colder now than it was in the mid-day. Without the sun high, and with the gifting of new snow, it is colder now but more tolerable. He had watched the day transition. Developing clouds that were expectant and fat. Then finally, shattered suspense and letting loose their burden, he had found himself heartened by it. Heavy snowflakes, large and powdery, gathering in his thick dark mane and on the curl of his eyelashes. Welcome. Finally. Winter had all but lowered the crown to its brow.
He is lost in some observation when she stirs up the soft and airy snowfall. He hears the soft thud of her body and the more raucous force of her roll. And then the pleasant and powerful, albeit distant, ring of her voice. He shakes his head, mane shedding its melt water, “Oh. Yes. I've always liked the golden hours myself. I'm Trystane, and very well.” He offers a cocked grin, his eyes full of an almost scholarly curiosity. Sleek. Too sleek, of course, and he knew why. He may not have ever been to the jungle, but he knows of it. In some small way he feels a connection there, ultimately having come to be only because of a magical amalgam of two amazonian sisters not so far down his line. His roots spread wide, a vast network here and there and ever growing, but two places were deeper than all the rest.
“Tell me, Naga” he approaches her, despite himself maybe a hoof closer than she'd wish. He was a creature of intimacy, and in moments of excited heat, he often forgets the importance of boundaries, “You must be from the jungle, right?” What's it like? A wealth of things to explore and an alien ecosystem to sort through. He opens his mouth to speak again, but instead turns his head to meet a newcomer. The wily grin on his face flickers a bit with the not entirely comfortable sensation of familiarity.
But he is not familiar. He has never met him in his life. The young stallion's ears flick back a moment, and he takes a half step back, humming and hawing a bit under his breath. Feeling a pang of guilt at the awkward quiet that he leaves for Naga and the stallion to sort out. He gazes at the now well compressed snow below his feet — tracing the clearer imprints of his hooves with his eyes. And then, “Fiero.”
“Fiero.”
“Fiero.” The name echos in his head. It swims, synapses firing off, like busy workers desperately searching through old filing cabinets, throwing the irrelevant papers aside. Clouds of confusion as he prys for a clear grasp of the memory.
“A walkingstick, mum!?” he squeaked, pressing his little nose towards it.
“Yes. It's a bug.”
The little colt tilted his head, blowing short burst of air at it.
“Would you like it if someone did that to you? If you were that small and defenseless?” His mother chastised him, watching over his shoulder.
“Hm, but I'm not that small at all, mum. Mum? Who is my papa?” Unceremonious, he did not hear his mother exhale with thoughtful consideration in its depth. He had heard some other kids talking about their own fathers in the playground...
His eyes snap up, and he makes to eek something out but it catches. He is ill-prepared for this, but he finds his heart clattering in his breast. Something he had long forgotten he urged for so badly. The wind carries the smell of another, and in confusion he stares straight ahead at Fiero still. His thought process etched painfully obvious on his face. He wants to send a more apologetic look to Naga, but it feels impossible right now. He blinks, willing his eyes away and they relent, but find further upheaval with Magnus. Not for his once again nearly self-same appearance, but for the intimate yearning on his face. Trystane steps back again. Stumbles, almost. “Hello.” The intrusive sound of his own distant and empty greeting surprises him and he snorts softly. “Son?” It is too much. Too much to take in, and too much to interrupt.
“I... I'm Trystane.” It means nothing. Magnus to Fiero, Fiero to Magnus. Fiero to him. But Trystane? He had been kept too hidden.
Nawww. Jesus guys this got too long. I don't even know how. I am so sorry lol. Had to change up the html because it was getting out of control aesthetically. He's been too much of a loner to feel all these feels right now.
It is steep, it is stone. Such Recovery.
From the daily press, the deepest nest,
the keeper's keep.