Rodrik.

[Rhaegor]

I kept my hope just like i'd hoped to
then sang to the sea for feelings deep blue

It's almost strange, seeing that demon of a man (my beloved brother, he who played war with me amidst the Jungle vines and who shaped me into who I am today) walking into this kingdom. Although the lands here are beginning to shape themselves into specific ideologies, they will never be as set as they used to be: men, women, traited, untraited, light, neutral, dark. Rodrik comes now to a Sanctuary, to a land where his family rules - we are a long, weary line of rulers it would seem, and perhaps it's that which strikes me as so peculiar. He comes now, broken and most likely weary, to a kingdom ruled by his niece, when once, he had been the one on the thrown.

But I won't tell him any of that, by any means! I prefer this man now, shackled still to evil, but more willing to embrace his softer sides; the weight of the crown no longer presses him to darkness as it once did.

When the call comes, little Rhaegor's shapely head pops up from where it had been absently grazing, a reserved but undeniably excited smile accompanying the powerful perking of his ears. A snort trumpets from his wide, chocolate brown nostrils in response; the loudest sound he is capable of making in the face of strangers. I grin to hear his effort, knowing that it's uncommon for him; but then, my name is being thrown along the wind, and my attention flies elsewhere.

"Brother."

I am taking long, determined strides towards him, such that I barely catch his poke at my age; by the time he's commenting on how long it's been since our last reunion, we are in each's other's embraces. I close my eyes in the strong, masculine touch... And yet somehow, as I breathe in the scent of his decaying flesh, I am reminded of our mother, and our father. We are both of them in our own rights - and together, it's almost as if their essence is with us.

We pull apart, and by now, I've formulated a response to his jibe, my lips quirking into a huge and crooked grin as I speak. "It would seem that immortality has caught me at the most laughable of times, and what a pair of immortals we make. One rotting, and the other halfway to having dust for bones; the universe has a cruel sense of humour."

Remembering myself - or rather, remembering he who is not myself - I step back, allowing Rhaegor to come forward. He does, with a subtle confidence and a gleam in his eye that suggests an understanding far vaster than one his age ought to have. I watch as the two stare at one another unblinkingly, barely breathing, either; the wings atop the gangly colt's scrawny back twitch once, but then stay absolutely still. He's concentrating, I think to myself. He wants to be everything we have dreamt of...

And you must be Rhaegor.

After a moment's pause, the boy - about fourteen hands these days - gives a slow, calculated nod. Then, in such a way that leaves my chest tight, the boy leans forward with his ears laid submissively back, eyes cast up towards his uncle's face as he goes to press his dark muzzle against the rotting skin of his uncle's shoulder. My own amber eyes flash to Rodrik's, their brims filling with tears whose emotion I can't quite place; but what I can place is this:

The boy is showing his respect; his regard; he knows who he is named after, and he knows his place...
I tuck my chin to my chest, attempting to contain myself, though I've rarely been able to before.

Rhaegor

@[Rodrik]