12-12-2017, 10:04 PM
Hawthorn is an atlas bound; chained by the heavy yoke of a legacy he can never live up to. His fathers have both been kings in their own right - of bachelors and brothers, something that he will never know except in the oral tradition of history being passed down to him, mincemeat from a bird’s open throat thrown up into his. He is bound by this fact that he is nothing like either of them and somehow a composite blend of both of them that leaves him confounded. There too, is the missing element - Element; her name once a balm to his ears is now an angry buzz of loss. Sister - twin; she had occupied so much of his existence and now, she is missing. One more burden for him to bear, he supposes with nothing short of his familiar brooding exterior. An exterior that has come to match a broiling mass of stormcloud dappling his once black flesh. To think of her is to think of the lost things like childhood and innocence, and Hawthorn has banished those things from his mind as much as he has thoughts of her.
The ground shakes beneath his step; Hawthorn is a large brute full of muscle and dense bone. He can feel the world slipping it’s yoke around his neck once more, drawing it tight and close - he is a king of nothing but he’ll make something of this nothing, by god he will! Except it is not god that he looks for beneath the old and new boughs of the redwoods, some still scarred from a drama that took place before he even came into this world (he’s still not even sure how that happened to be honest, a stallion cannot birth a colt - magic had been involved, like magic always is).
He looks for them - those few, that he had managed to plant nips on their hips and claim. If king he could be, then he’d ruled a kingdom of them, wild and different in their looks and personalities, and here was as good as anywhere for a kingdom of theirs to flourish. One eye is brown and the other, the telltale red that marks him as one of the unmistakable sons of a remarkable stallion (no - two, remarkable stallions, his love for them wars with his dislike of a lack of inheritance besides the history crammed down his throat) - mismatched eyes that search for the first of his beautiful ones.
Hawthorn, broody though he may be in look and tone, could still find appreciation inside himself for the flash of their eyes and the toss of their feminine heads. So he called to them with a thunderclap of a neigh to let them know that their king had come at last.
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