there was a heaven in youbut god there’s a devil in me
He doesn’t know what to expect as he comes to the edge of his kingdom (though, at the very same time, he knows exactly what to expect - a bitter ending, one that has come too soon and too fast) and so when he comes to a thoughtful stance beneath the open expanse of sky and billowing smoke, he is at a loss. Across the border and the long trip into Hyaline would bring him to a place where he could not return from; a fact that settles neatly across the worn planes of his face and the blood that stains the cobalt of his lips (Tangerine had cleaned it away before exiting the volcano, but even the short trip to inland left his breathing ragged and shaky, with new droplets of ruby red adorning his chest and mouth). Warrick attempts to clear his throat but is unsuccessful as always to rid the constant feeling of blood and tissue that rises from his esophagus, so instead he settles by pressing his lips into a thin line, closing the brightness of his blue gaze to soak beneath the Tephran sun.
What felt like brief, fleeting moments in the warmth of the sun became longer and longer as the once-king rattles beneath it, his ribcage stuttering and the crackling of his lungs seemingly louder in the silence of his caretakers and wife. Tangerine’s nose is pressed gently against the dampness of his neck, nourishingly placed to his skin (as if her touch alone was fueling his strength, seeping her very soul into the darkness that lurks inside him) and for a moment he is peaceful - wavering between awake and consciousness, finding solace in his final moments in Tephra despite the disease that idly thrums in his blood.
The steady hoofbeats of another pressing into the soft earth of the inland plains stirs the once-king, rousing him with slow blinks of bloodshot eyes and the deepening shadow of sunken bone of his face. Magnus’ voice reaches Warrick’s ears before the navy stallion’s cerulean eyes find the familiarity of gold-flecked eyes. The recognition brings a weak smile to the cobalt of his mouth, leaning slightly on Tangerine’s body for support. There is a soft flutter of his grand, feathered wings and Warrick’s head lowers slightly. Magnus will always be the king that came before Warrick’s time, as well as an old friend.
“Your return would not have stopped this,” comes the raspiness of his voice, brittle and broken on the humid air. There is a slight creasing of his mouth into the shadow of a frown, “though I am glad to have seen you before - ” - I get worse.
“- before you die.”
Warrick’s voice trails off and he does not attempt to finish the sentence nor provide any optimism for the future. His brow furrows slightly and there is a hardness in his eyes (he recognized the direness of his current state, though has not ever had to voice the fact out loud), his throat tightening immensely. He swallows, but the movement creates a heaving of his chest as he begins to cough, doing his best to keep the brightness of red from emerging from his mouth.
Thankfully, Lucrezia’s presence allows the stallion a moment to regain himself, both physically and mentally. “Lucrezia,” he greets her, the name on his tongue warm and genuine. For a moment he wonders what day it truly is and if this is merely all a terrible dream, and he is still the young and naive stallion that once found both the uniquely patterned mare and the buckskin stallion as leaders and his superiors. Time has since changed him (changed them all) and though they are not who they once were, they somehow have found each other once again. The thought brings a semblance of a smile to his face. “It’s good to see you both, dear friends.” He’s about to go on - to perhaps strengthen them in this time of transition and his own tragedy, to remind them that not all is lost (not truly) - but his thoughts are brought to a halt as a familiar voice whispers his name.
“Amorette,” he replies gently, his own eyes turning steely against the new emotion that her presence has brought forth. The sight of her own distraught plagues him, and though he instantly searches for some way to erase the worry and fear that strikes her, he knows there is none. So instead he allows her to approach him with a solemn look - it is a moment that is too serious for words. She stretches to meet him and he is hesitant - would Carnage’s magic slip into her pores with just a drop of his own blood? - but in the same moment he could not refuse the gesture, one that has become so natural to them both. “Do not be sorry,” he says sternly to her, and then louder, to the others: “none of you be sorry for me.”
He snorts softly, turning his face away from Amorette’s to lift his chin into the air slightly, trying to appear strong in the midst of the disease that shackles him. “This is not in vain. My plight will not go without purpose. Keep watch on our home - all three of you - for there is something powerful that I have made sure will come to Tephra’s aide in the near future.”
“I cannot stay here. Hyaline is where I will find rest, with my family. Honor Tephra as you have always done, my friends, and she will not fail you.” He cannot speak for Kromium, the child-king, but with the three before him assisting the metallic stallion, Warrick will rest easy knowing that Tephra will not go astray. “My daughters and son, Marble, Sibyl, and Warden, will remain here with you all. All I ask is that you take care and guide them in my absence.” The stallion swallows hard, his face screwing up slightly.
Absence.
Death.
Tangerine’s lips press gently into his neck, lush and warm and divine against the cancer that writhes within him. He looks to Amorette even though his words are for all of them, his cerulean eyes pleading.
“Will you do this for me?”
What felt like brief, fleeting moments in the warmth of the sun became longer and longer as the once-king rattles beneath it, his ribcage stuttering and the crackling of his lungs seemingly louder in the silence of his caretakers and wife. Tangerine’s nose is pressed gently against the dampness of his neck, nourishingly placed to his skin (as if her touch alone was fueling his strength, seeping her very soul into the darkness that lurks inside him) and for a moment he is peaceful - wavering between awake and consciousness, finding solace in his final moments in Tephra despite the disease that idly thrums in his blood.
The steady hoofbeats of another pressing into the soft earth of the inland plains stirs the once-king, rousing him with slow blinks of bloodshot eyes and the deepening shadow of sunken bone of his face. Magnus’ voice reaches Warrick’s ears before the navy stallion’s cerulean eyes find the familiarity of gold-flecked eyes. The recognition brings a weak smile to the cobalt of his mouth, leaning slightly on Tangerine’s body for support. There is a soft flutter of his grand, feathered wings and Warrick’s head lowers slightly. Magnus will always be the king that came before Warrick’s time, as well as an old friend.
“Your return would not have stopped this,” comes the raspiness of his voice, brittle and broken on the humid air. There is a slight creasing of his mouth into the shadow of a frown, “though I am glad to have seen you before - ” - I get worse.
“- before you die.”
Warrick’s voice trails off and he does not attempt to finish the sentence nor provide any optimism for the future. His brow furrows slightly and there is a hardness in his eyes (he recognized the direness of his current state, though has not ever had to voice the fact out loud), his throat tightening immensely. He swallows, but the movement creates a heaving of his chest as he begins to cough, doing his best to keep the brightness of red from emerging from his mouth.
Thankfully, Lucrezia’s presence allows the stallion a moment to regain himself, both physically and mentally. “Lucrezia,” he greets her, the name on his tongue warm and genuine. For a moment he wonders what day it truly is and if this is merely all a terrible dream, and he is still the young and naive stallion that once found both the uniquely patterned mare and the buckskin stallion as leaders and his superiors. Time has since changed him (changed them all) and though they are not who they once were, they somehow have found each other once again. The thought brings a semblance of a smile to his face. “It’s good to see you both, dear friends.” He’s about to go on - to perhaps strengthen them in this time of transition and his own tragedy, to remind them that not all is lost (not truly) - but his thoughts are brought to a halt as a familiar voice whispers his name.
“Amorette,” he replies gently, his own eyes turning steely against the new emotion that her presence has brought forth. The sight of her own distraught plagues him, and though he instantly searches for some way to erase the worry and fear that strikes her, he knows there is none. So instead he allows her to approach him with a solemn look - it is a moment that is too serious for words. She stretches to meet him and he is hesitant - would Carnage’s magic slip into her pores with just a drop of his own blood? - but in the same moment he could not refuse the gesture, one that has become so natural to them both. “Do not be sorry,” he says sternly to her, and then louder, to the others: “none of you be sorry for me.”
He snorts softly, turning his face away from Amorette’s to lift his chin into the air slightly, trying to appear strong in the midst of the disease that shackles him. “This is not in vain. My plight will not go without purpose. Keep watch on our home - all three of you - for there is something powerful that I have made sure will come to Tephra’s aide in the near future.”
“I cannot stay here. Hyaline is where I will find rest, with my family. Honor Tephra as you have always done, my friends, and she will not fail you.” He cannot speak for Kromium, the child-king, but with the three before him assisting the metallic stallion, Warrick will rest easy knowing that Tephra will not go astray. “My daughters and son, Marble, Sibyl, and Warden, will remain here with you all. All I ask is that you take care and guide them in my absence.” The stallion swallows hard, his face screwing up slightly.
Absence.
Death.
Tangerine’s lips press gently into his neck, lush and warm and divine against the cancer that writhes within him. He looks to Amorette even though his words are for all of them, his cerulean eyes pleading.
“Will you do this for me?”
WARRICK
HERE'S A REALLY SAD NOVEL THANKS
@[magnus] @[Lucrezia] @[Amorette]