Tephra is something different to him than it must be to his brother, something vastly less comforting. He had not been here for the founding, had not seen the mists lift their veil to display the home that would be theirs. Had not been among the first to set foot upon its soil. Had not even come here in its earliest days, in the days when the new world order was still being shaped. It would never belong to him the way it belongs to Offspring. Could never mean to him what it must mean to his Brother.
It is not the Tundra. It is not home.
But he respects what it is to the black stallion, respects what the rich, loamy soil must mean to him. For that reason, he waits. He waits for his approach, his invitation. They might still be among the Brotherhood at heart, but change had come and thrown the world into chaos. It is left to them to make what order they may of that upheaval. Hurricane, of all the things he is and has been, is a creature of order.
But the eagerness of Offsprings approach, the easy, open, welcoming way he is greeted does his heart good. Setting a faint worry, a niggling, intrusive thought, to rest. No matter what history the two men might share, he has long since learned to take nothing for granted. Despite his reticence on the subject, change happens every day, whether one wishes it or not.
Stretching snowy wings wide, Hurricane wades towards the shore, towards the man who stands upon its edge. Water cascades from him, sluicing down slick, pale skin unnoticed. His gaze, dark and unreadable, rests upon Offspring with intense focus. He notes the changes in his Brother, the weight that had not been present when last they had met. It is not physical, not when one has immortality on his side, but rather in the lines of his dark features, in the feverish hollows of his red eyes.
“I’ve come,” he finally says by way of greeting, the gravel of disuse in his tone. “I am… glad to see you, Brother.” The words come roughly, as though he has trouble speaking them. But then, emotion has never been his strong suit. But it is there nonetheless, barely discernable, but still roiling in the darkest depths of his soul. “I was not made to be a wanderer.”
there is never a day that goes by
that is a good day to die
Hurricane