01-07-2016, 12:14 AM
That everything good is happening somewhere else?
I haven’t forgotten everything in my old age.
Yes, the memory exists vividly behind my amber eyes: a beautiful son born of his beautiful mother. And nestled right inside the warm feeling of fatherhood sat the guilt: Bergamot never made a sound, nor will he ever. Yet with the carrying of muteness came the carrying of my coat, and therein lies the rescue of my happiness. For although my son will never speak the way most everyone does, the language which dances across his coat is far more beautiful than any language of the tongue shall ever be.
Alas, to my great distress, my son, illustrative coat and all, no longer walks these lands. Never far from my mind, but always unreachable in this reality. It pains me. And in my old age, though I have not forgotten, there is little more for me to think of. My family seems to be all that remains for me, though I shall soon be departing from it.
Straia, neice; I think of her often, being a vengeful queen and all. Not many as successful as her these days, especially not myself. No, I have resigned to the position of Executive Grandpa, as proven by the grey hairs lining my eyes and lips and the gentle sway of my back, though I try to maintain a good posture whenever possible. And hey, grey can be sexy, especially when taken care of the way I take care of myself.
Again with the rambling, and the vanity; age has done me no good, it would seem.
Having thought of Straia – momentary though the thought may have been – I rouse myself from the warmth of the flames and turn to find her. The air is heavy with birth, and I have an inkling that the smell may very well resonate from her, the queen. As I glide through the pine forest, I smile; my niece has already beat me, progeny wise.
Slipping through two closely grown pines, my attention flies many ways. Rodrik, my devil brother himself, coos to his patchwork granddaughter, who lays with her mother. The surge of aggression within me is startling, but it’s hard to remember that beneath all the grime and devilishness lays the sweet soul of my brother. My ears twitch melodically between forward-facing and pressed clean back, though I walk forward and speak as calmly and musically as ever.
“A pity that the girl’s first memory will be of something so hideous,” I joke softly, grinning down at Rodrik as he stoops over the filly. From my hooves, the rising of a sun appears, the beauty of which cannot be described in words (though it is easy to remember this sunrise, the one succeeding Bergamot’s conception; it has always been my favourite). Delicately leaning forward, I blow warm, friendly air towards my brother, though I do not broach the border of his skin. Best not to risk any rises from him just now.
Tearing my eyes away from the immortal man whom I have yearned to see again so avidly, I smile kindly upon my niece. “Another one, hey Straia? It seems like just yesterday you were telling me that children just ‘weren’t for you’.” Reaching down to the ground-born queen, I snuffle her forelock in an all too grandpa-like way. If I hadn’t known the raven-magician as a tiny girl, maybe I would be a little more hesitant; but now and again, I might as well exert my privileges as Executive Grandpa, and uncle.
Finally I look to the black-and-white filly, my smile blossoming further; the sun upon my skin has reached my bosom, and the colours splayed across my body are more vivid than the Chamber may ever reveal to her. I silently pray that she will remember the colours, and the man who was different from the other people who live here; there may not be much more time for her to get to know me. This may well have to be my first, and last impression upon the child.
“And I’m your great-uncle Kavi.”
word explosion much...