The trip to the Jungle is an arduous one for the older man. The heat of new summer weighs heavily on his back, making the trek that much more difficult. It’s the furthest possible journey in all of Beqanna, he reminds himself, trying to sooth his irritation, of course it isn’t easy. Still, the roan wouldn’t shed any tears if a magician came along and say, flattened the land a bit. He wouldn’t miss a few of the pocked-by-overturned-stones-hills that seem to appear just as he’s finally caught his breath again. Only his anticipation at seeing his birthplace once more (perhaps for the final time?) powers his feet up and over them. He grits his teeth and trudges on, the picture of restrained impatience.
The alliance is already set in stone, he knows. Maybe it is redundant to press forward with this trip when a Jungle envoy has already sealed the deal. Maybe he should stay within the confines of his chilly now-home, focusing on internal matters before venturing out again. But it’s a trip he’s been rather looking forward to ever since he volunteered for it. Crito knows that Errant understands his desire to visit the Jungle has far deeper roots than simple diplomacy. It’s been well over a decade since the former prince had stood beneath a kapok tree - had listened to the cries of the howler monkeys. And, perhaps for the first time since he saw and heard those things last, he finds he misses them.
There is also the matter of Scorch, of course. It’s been several years since he has seen his burning twin. He hardly knows the woman she has become (though he can imagine she is little changed from their childhood days; the fire to his ice). He knows that he has nieces and nephews – that the Blood Alliance continues on through her whereas it had stopped with him – but he only knows one by name. That boy, Simeon, had been a promising addition to the Brotherhood at first, eager and present. But in the months since Errant’s coronation, he had disappeared. It is one particular piece of information Crito is not looking forward to sharing.
When the ground begins to soften with humidity and the air becomes thicker, the men (if Hurricane has indeed followed him) have nearly made it. The thick wall of trees rises ahead of them, so like the Tundra’s ice wall, if a bit more permeable. The old stallion is a diplomat, though, and he knows better than to venture past this obvious border. He waits (and is truthfully glad, as it gives him a chance to rest) even though he knows the direct path that would take them into the Jungle’s heart. A macaw takes flight, a spectrum of colors he has gone many years without seeing, holed up as he has been in the desolate north. It brings a smile of recognition to his lips. Though it had felt like an escape when he left it, the Jungle will always be a place he is glad to return to. Even if only for a while.
( c r i t o ) |
