"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
Perhaps, it is his father’s reawakening (if one can call being reassembled and spit out by the sea a reawakening) that causes Fiero to stir. Old blood seems to whisper to relatives long lost. Fiero is slow to listen. Still, he comes, lazily blinking the dust from dark eyelashes. He’s a few months late to his father’s welcome party when he finally steps into the meadow.
This isn’t home, but it is familiar. Familiar in the way a certain scent lingers from a father long dead. The trail has been trampled though, just to the point where Fiero is more suspicious that there may be a witch playing tricks on him somewhere just out of sight, than he is believing. This isn’t the first time he has witnessed death return to life. Old gods get bored sometimes, and drag trinkets back from the hollows to tinker with again. His own father returning from death would not surprise him. In fact, Fiero would be overjoyed if he could believe the muddled scents that lie within the meadow grasses.
Instead, Fiero eyes the treeline, suspicious that there could be someone messing with his head. He cannot be blamed for being a little paranoid. He has, pretty well, lost all he had ever known. He’s not entirely convinced that something out there doesn’t wish him ill as well. But, it is not in his blood to sulk, or cower.
He stalks closer to the treeline, muscles tense and ready. Something is there.
Mouthy, stubborn, egotistical - Zojja had been everything her brother had not been, much to her mother's mounting horror. She had tried, of course, but she had not smoothed out the multitude of bad habits that comprised her daughter's winning personality. Weaning had been mercifully easy, and Zojja was free to explore Beqanna within days - made even easier by her mother's meandering progress northward. All the same, however, the Meadow had held a certain allure to it: so many to watch. So much to learn.
Zojja was above them all, of course. It was one of the things Porrim had tried hardest to discourage her from doing. Not that it had worked - it's impossible to change the truth. The compulsion to inform others that they were blatant morons had come at a price, however - at nearly two years old, Zojja still found herself almost always alone. It made for an opportune time to practice all the tricks she'd seen her mother perform, but it did get rather boring after a while. Zojja's best and most intelligent company was, of course, herself, but this didn't mean she couldn't fall victim to simple loneliness. It was an unfortunate vice. She was certain she'd stamp it out someday.
Not that this was one of those lonely times.
She'd been settled into a narrow thicket just beyond the Meadow border, nearly knee-deep in fallen leaves, trying hard to imitate (trying to improve, really) one of Porrim's less common disguises - blending in with the surrounding trees, camouflaged, an illusion broken only by motion. And she HAD, naturally, improved upon her mother's method, though she couldn't be bothered to specify how. ALL of her experiments were perfect. It was simply how Zojja operated.
There had, however, been someone lurking nearby, and even as Zojja stood perfectly still, scarcely daring to breathe lest her flawless disguise crumble, he came still closer. He stopped within mere feet of her - and he taunted her.
For a moment, the red-orange-brown of the treeline remained undisturbed, and silence reigned. Then the trees shivered, sort of, and Zojja's gangly dun form resolved itself back into proper solidity with a loud, frustrated snort. Her wings - for the moment, retaining their meticulous leaf pattern - tucked tightly against her sides.
"Pure genius," she huffed in response, looking the stallion over haughtily. "Lest the ignorant flee in fear of the unknown. I presume your lack of a retreat means that you don't count yourself among them. That said - who are you?"
Fiero misses his mother, Joelle. If he knew what had become of her, if he knew that she had been murdered, perhaps, the beast that lie within his blood would have destroyed him just as it had his other relatives. He and his sister had been too young to understand back then - back before the Mother Tree. Back when he was a prince of sorts. His parents had gone, and try as he might, Fiero couldn’t stop his sister from leaving either. For a time Fiero remained in Heaven’s Gates. He mourned them silently, hiding his sadness with service to his mother’s kingdom. Perhaps, that was a trick he picked up from his sire, but Fiero had only ever been a sliver of the soldier and protector that Magnus was.
Or, rather, is.
Fiero picks up the familiar scent again just as the trees seem to visibly shudder. Fiero steels himself, calming the overwhelming desire to scamper away. He is more fight than flight, but he's rather taken aback to see a gangly filly appear, as genius as she may be.
He tilts his head in question, before a low, throaty chuckle escapes him.
‘She talks a lot.’ He decides silently amidst thoughts of how she doesn't quite look like a witch, despite her materialization from the copse. Witches are all cloaked in darkness and mystery, something the young mare before him lacks.
“Neat trick.” He says, his muscles lessening their choking grip on his bones. Still, he is a little uncomfortable, because she is so different from what he expected. “Fiero.” he answers simply. He could tell her more. He could tell her that he has been gone for what seems like eternities. He could tell her that he knew his dead father was here somewhere, but he doesn’t.
