stories on the tip of our tongues; mary

[kildare]

It had been all fun and games with his older brothers. It always had been.

But on the day that Kildare announced he was leaving, he was met with only Tarian’s stony gaze. His blue eyes had gone frozen for a moment, the heart of a blizzard glowing in his eyes. Kildare had watched, waited, eyeing his eldest brother before he dropped his gaze. Kildare had stared at the grounded, hating himself for being the acquiescent younger sibling.

He would never be bigger than Tarian. (Liam, perhaps, but there was always the chance that his elder twin brothers would be larger than his, gifted with their wings and ability of flight.) Kildare might not have had the sky but he had held the power of his ancestors, the ability to alter breezes and summon gales. He could whisper to the wind and it was always there to answer him, to soothe and incite him. A playful breeze, a demanding gust, a storms fury. He knew her language and he knew how to tame her.

Since coming to Beqanna, he feels naked without his ability. The midnight stallion often takes himself to the island's shores where he can wander at his leisure and he can listen. He still listens to her, can feel her wrap himself in his mane, through his very core and it makes him feel so utterly powerless that he can’t answer her call.

How is he supposed to help Astana? How is he to help anybody if he can’t even help himself?

He has promised a visit to Nerine for the diamond girl. It’s a “wellness checkup” of sorts to make sure that the filly hasn’t ended up in the clutches of some mad and vindictive creature. Perhaps Heartfire isn’t as bad as all that (as Astana would say, she’s “so great”). But the boy can’t understand what a queen would be doing with a yearling who has ventured too far from home.

If anything (and unfortunately), Astana was his responsibility.

Today in winter’s depth, Kildare finds himself at the mouth of the River and edge of the Forest. The air is cold, almost intolerably so. It bites at his nose and burns each inhale he takes, freezing the very core of him. But the air is crisp, clear, almost alive with the season. The old part of him, that empty part where his gift had once been, can the feel the chill of winter so keenly.

Someday. Someday, he will speak this language again. It is a reunion that he finds himself longing for more each day.

The trees are sparse here, emptied and barren in the depth of the season and the lullaby of waves calls from not far away. His mind tries to decide if he should go further in the world and towards the shore. The air is brisker there, something that sharpens his senses and refreshes him. On a day as empty and gray as this one, he needs that. He needs to cut and hone his senses. He needs a moment to become as cutting as the wind.

He turns to go, ready to feel the bite of winter until a sound stops him. An ear swivels back and the young stallion turns his head, inquiring green eyes searching through the tepid colors of white and gray to find the source of the noise.

@[Mary]<3