"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
11-26-2015, 02:37 PM (This post was last modified: 11-26-2015, 07:49 PM by Trystane.)
It is steep, it is stone. Such recovery. From the daily press, the deepest nest, the keeper's keep.
Almost everything is a shade of brown. The wind-blown meadow grasses a mottled caramel, broken by the soft, light earthy yellow of swaying foxtail and brome. The transformation is nearly complete. His mother would tell him never to feel sad or resentful of the drying and shriveling of early winter, that beautiful things come with every seasonal phase, and every seasonal phase is as necessary as it is inevitable. (“May as well find some joy in it if you cannot avoid it, my darling.”). He could never provoke her constant equilibrium in himself (he had tried) — the dead heads of once bright yarrow and foxglove give him pause. Give him a flutter of disappointment, first in the unhappy sag of withered petals and then in himself.
Fresh and sun touched panes of snow could be lovely, fodder for poets and youth alike — he had traipsed his fair share of explorative curls and swirls in virgin snow. But the middling desaturation lacks anything lively, superficially at least (mother would shake her head). The season has bereaved them of green and had yet to gift them with snowfall, “A bit miserly,” he mutters disapprovingly, moving off past the encroachment of bare deciduous copses into the open meadow.
He exhales, watching his breath rise and disband in the air. It is cold and early — winter's frigidity has settled in, anchoring its fingers under root networks. Immovable, for a time. He doesn't mind the cold, terribly. He prefers warmth, but the tingle as the air passes through his airways shocks him awake this morning.
Underfoot, dawn frost has left the dead grass crunchy, and none of it looks particularly appetizing. Above, the gold of dawn has been quelled by an alarming cornflower blue. A clear and hollowed out sky, dotted with birds brave enough to stay. Slants of still too-bright sun draw slowly shortening shadows on the ground and, he notices now, everything seems to glitter around them. “There is that,” he sighs, smiling despite himself. There is always something.
It is steep, it is stone. Such Recovery. From the daily press, the deepest nest, the keeper's keep.
No winter coat was the only hard part of being an amazon girl. The compact black mare had no idea what compelled her to venture out into the frozen wonderland that lie outside her warm jungle home. Her legs tingle slightly from the cold of the knee deep snow (for her, she is only about 14.1...technically a large pony), but she pushes forward. With the threat of war and all the negative feelings around, Naga had just about enough. Maybe that is what coaxed her out here, seeking some neutral ground, maybe...just maybe she would talk to someone.
The sun was dipping lower in the sky, the sun casting it’s deceiving faux warm colors onto the sparkling blanket below. Naga loved her jungle but she had to admit, this was beautiful and exciting. Her spirits are lifted now, she begins to kick up her heels a little and then proceeds to drop down and roll. It is not too often that anything outside the jungle brings her joy.
She rubs her face in the snow, trying to see if she could cover herself with snow to the point of having none of her black fur showing. Though that got far too cold, it was time to shake it off and pretend nothing just happened. Just as she turns she notices another just a few steps away. She notices the slight smile on his face. She wondered how long he had been there….oh well, no going back now. Whatever, a grown mare can have some fun….haters gonna hate.
She looks to the buckskin boy, he looked like he had some fluff to him, lucky him. Luckily her little burst of energy gained her some blood flow, so she was not as cold. She is not much of a social gal, but her voice is always smooth as silk. She flicks her head in his direction with a friendly little nicker to get his attention.
”It is quite the lovely evening, sunsets are my favorite. I’m Naga, how are you?”
She is right to the point, her naturally smooth tone masks most of the awkwardness she was feeling inside. Not often our feline girl goes out of her way to chit chat and gossip like a hen. She was quite independent and very quiet, it was just her nature. Sometimes she can come off as cold, since she literally has no social skills when it comes to trying to talk to anyone outside of kingdom duties, but today she definitely managed a more friendly greeting. She feels a little bit of confidence spark in her, giving her less anxiety about trying to talk to this, currently, “mystery” stallion.
Fiero isn't quite sure why he does not return to the Gates after having stumbled upon the scent of his sire months ago. He somehow knows that the Gates are the most likely place Magnus will be. Yet, Fiero lingers here instead, pondering his curious meeting with the strange, and arrogant Zojja, and the impossibility that his sire has returned from death. He also wonders of Joelle, and his sister,Lylah. He dreams sometimes that he is young again, and his mother and father watch over the kingdom. He dreams sometimes of Vineine, and wonders what could have been if she would have stayed. Perhaps, the reason he does not yet return to the Gates is because he does not want to shatter those sweet imaginings with what he already knows to be true. They are all gone.
Or, at least they were gone for a time.
His world is changing now, whether he idles his time in the penumbras treeline of the Meadow, or not. Another day fading into night brings him forth from the copse. He is not a creature of vespertine shadow, but sleeplessness has plagued him these past few nights. Tonight he won’t even fight with the insomnia.
The first winter snow has cast a blanket over the dried, dead grasses during the day, despite the clear morning. Fiero tromps through the untouched snow rather unceremoniously. A black mare dusting herself with snow catches his eye for a fleeting moment, but there is another vaguely familiar form that steals his attention. For a moment, he could have mistaken the buckskin stallion for Magnus, or maybe even Fiero himself. He snorts at the notion, diverting his path away from the pair a few paces as the black mare attempts to strike up conversation. But, something gives him pause.
He joins them quickly enough to catch the last breath of words from the mare’s lips, and he offers her a courteous smile. Normally, he wouldn't intrude upon a chance at conversation between mare and another stallion just for the sake of talking to another male. In fact, he still isn't quite sure why he is here. There were hundreds of buckskin horses running around Beqanna that shared the same blood somewhere in their veins as he. After all, grandsire Atrox has produced masses of offspring. He does not yet think of Vineine, or the possibility that the stallion now beside him could be his own son. Not yet.
“ Hello,” he says, addressing them both “and nice to meet you, Naga.” He offers a more sincere smile to the black mare. There is an awkwardness that creeps up his throat. “My name is Fiero.” Let’s talk about the weather. Yet, somehow he manages to keep his composure, amidst trying not to stare at Trystane.
ooc: I wasn't sure what to do with the change in setting, so I hope this is alright. Fiero is super awkward right now. Eek.
you and I both know that the house is haunted and you and I both know that the ghost is me
The meadow is not Magnus’ normal setting. On any given day, the buckskin stallion most often finds himself either patrolling the Gates or making his way to the field, culling the latest batch of newcomers for those who may have a heart for Heaven. He was not picky—at least in the conventional sense. He did not look for those who would traditionally fit the description of a Gates resident. Instead, he looked for those who could fit her future: those who were strong enough to protect, those who were broken enough to need a haven. To him, the Gates would grow as a sanctuary. He would see to it that came to pass.
Still, for some reason, he finds himself moving toward the meadow today. He flies from the Gates, enjoying the ability to stretch his wings on a longer flight, and breathes deeply of the soon-to-be winter air. It was crisp, although the flirtatious bite of autumn was beginning to bleed into the more vicious snap of the coming months. Although he had been born and raised in the Jungle and found himself often missing the humid heat, he loved these months. He loved the frost and the silence of snowfall.
Magnus had just landed when he heard the name. Fiero. It rung something deep within him—some memory he had long forgotten. He had thought Ledger was his only child still roaming these lands, and even then, his son had disappeared recently. But to think that Fiero, a child of Joelle, was still alive? It seemed impossible. Unable to keep himself away, Magnus made his way toward the trio (unaware that it was a group made up of his half-sister, son, and grandson) and looked toward the buckskin stallions.
His stomach twisted painfully.
“Hello,” he finally managed in his husky, throaty voice. “My name is Magnus.” He looked toward Fiero, and he felt hope flare desperately in him. Doing his best to tamper it, he simply said this: “Son?”
It is steep, it is stone. Such recovery. From the daily press, the deepest nest, the keeper's keep.
The soft duskiness rounds the edges of incoming winter. It peels away from the grey and dull some of the cold, replacing the chill with a heady beauty — and it is better. Despite the fact that it is colder now than it was in the mid-day. Without the sun high, and with the gifting of new snow, it is colder now but more tolerable. He had watched the day transition. Developing clouds that were expectant and fat. Then finally, shattered suspense and letting loose their burden, he had found himself heartened by it. Heavy snowflakes, large and powdery, gathering in his thick dark mane and on the curl of his eyelashes. Welcome. Finally. Winter had all but lowered the crown to its brow.
He is lost in some observation when she stirs up the soft and airy snowfall. He hears the soft thud of her body and the more raucous force of her roll. And then the pleasant and powerful, albeit distant, ring of her voice. He shakes his head, mane shedding its melt water, “Oh. Yes. I've always liked the golden hours myself. I'm Trystane, and very well.” He offers a cocked grin, his eyes full of an almost scholarly curiosity. Sleek. Too sleek, of course, and he knew why. He may not have ever been to the jungle, but he knows of it. In some small way he feels a connection there, ultimately having come to be only because of a magical amalgam of two amazonian sisters not so far down his line. His roots spread wide, a vast network here and there and ever growing, but two places were deeper than all the rest.
“Tell me, Naga” he approaches her, despite himself maybe a hoof closer than she'd wish. He was a creature of intimacy, and in moments of excited heat, he often forgets the importance of boundaries, “You must be from the jungle, right?”What's it like? A wealth of things to explore and an alien ecosystem to sort through. He opens his mouth to speak again, but instead turns his head to meet a newcomer. The wily grin on his face flickers a bit with the not entirely comfortable sensation of familiarity.
But he is not familiar. He has never met him in his life. The young stallion's ears flick back a moment, and he takes a half step back, humming and hawing a bit under his breath. Feeling a pang of guilt at the awkward quiet that he leaves for Naga and the stallion to sort out. He gazes at the now well compressed snow below his feet — tracing the clearer imprints of his hooves with his eyes. And then, “Fiero.”
“Fiero.”
“Fiero.” The name echos in his head. It swims, synapses firing off, like busy workers desperately searching through old filing cabinets, throwing the irrelevant papers aside. Clouds of confusion as he prys for a clear grasp of the memory.
“A walkingstick, mum!?” he squeaked, pressing his little nose towards it.
“Yes. It's a bug.”
The little colt tilted his head, blowing short burst of air at it.
“Would you like it if someone did that to you? If you were that small and defenseless?” His mother chastised him, watching over his shoulder.
“Hm, but I'm not that small at all, mum. Mum? Who is my papa?” Unceremonious, he did not hear his mother exhale with thoughtful consideration in its depth. He had heard some other kids talking about their own fathers in the playground...
His eyes snap up, and he makes to eek something out but it catches. He is ill-prepared for this, but he finds his heart clattering in his breast. Something he had long forgotten he urged for so badly. The wind carries the smell of another, and in confusion he stares straight ahead at Fiero still. His thought process etched painfully obvious on his face. He wants to send a more apologetic look to Naga, but it feels impossible right now. He blinks, willing his eyes away and they relent, but find further upheaval with Magnus. Not for his once again nearly self-same appearance, but for the intimate yearning on his face. Trystane steps back again. Stumbles, almost. “Hello.” The intrusive sound of his own distant and empty greeting surprises him and he snorts softly. “Son?” It is too much. Too much to take in, and too much to interrupt.
“I... I'm Trystane.” It means nothing. Magnus to Fiero, Fiero to Magnus. Fiero to him. But Trystane? He had been kept too hidden.
Nawww. Jesus guys this got too long. I don't even know how. I am so sorry lol. Had to change up the html because it was getting out of control aesthetically. He's been too much of a loner to feel all these feels right now.
It is steep, it is stone. Such Recovery. From the daily press, the deepest nest, the keeper's keep.
The glow of dusk sets his body alight with flames of amber and gold. His hide is not the only thing that is burning. The new snow reflects the colors of the setting sun, white giving way to rosy pinks, and yellows. The beauty is lost on him. He does not know these strangers. They do not know him. He feels increasingly out of place when the buckskin stallion pulls back to stare at the ground, and the mare offers little in response. Fiero looks back and forth between them for a moment, before speaking.
“Sorry to have interrupted…” but, why do I know you? This false familiarity burns him from the inside out.
He might not have noticed the thud of landing hooves, or the gust of wind from beneath powerful wings if the conversation betwixt the three of them had been any more exciting. Fiero turns his head to see the approach of yet another buckskin stallion. He jaw falls open, for he recognizes the face of his sire, even with his new wings. An angel, or a devil returned from death. He would have fallen backwards if he hadn’t been frozen stiff.
‘Son?’
Fiero laughs with so much mirth that tears form in his eyes. He presses his forehead against the crook of Magnus’ neck, and closes his eyes for a moment. He is warm, and alive, and real. He smells of Heaven (musky, earthy, home). Fiero pulls back with a smile, and the glow of dusk shows more beautiful to him that before.
“My father.” He says. There is no question as to where he had been all of these years. He does not ask why he had left him to figure out life on his own. “I have missed you.” For now, Fiero is just happy. So, happy that he nearly forgets where he is.
He looks back towards the other buckskin stallion as he finally speaks. He introduces himself as Trystane.
“Very nice to meet you, Trystane.” he says, and he means it. “I don’t think we have met before…” he says slowly. “but, you seem so familiar to me. I cannot place why.” Because, I have a son I do not know about. Because, Beqanna is cruel, and beautiful.
ooc: Sorry to skip. Fiero and Vineine are meeting in the Forest, and I'd like to nail some of this timeline down before moving on to another life shattering meeting for Fi. xD
you and I both know that the house is haunted and you and I both know that the ghost is me
What had started as such a casual meeting is now burdened with weight, buoyant with joy. Magnus is both elated and horrifically sad—what had been stolen from him in those years under the saltwater?—but he voices none of it, instead, holding his son close to him, the stallion who looks so like him and yet has all the memories of Joelle. “Fiero,” he whispers, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply, wondering at the cruel beauty that had ripped his family apart and then fed him back small pieces again.
“I-I didn’t think you were still around,” his voice is soft, meant for the two of them and yet shared for the group—for what did Magnus have to hide? “When I came back,” his voice breaks here, the remembrance of crawling from the ocean, spitting up death onto the sand, enough to shake his core, “I thought my family had all long left these lands.” Joelle was gone—that he knew. Joelle did not return with him from beneath the water to the land; his life still lacked her and yet was colored with new faces, new memories.
His breath shudders from his lungs, “If I had known, I would have come for you.”
He would have moved mountains. Burned kingdoms. Done anything to find him.
But his attention is drawn back to the younger male, the third buckskin to complete the trio, and his gold-flecked eyes burn with curiosity. “Trystane,” he echoes the word, tasting the name—wishing that it struck the same chord in him that it clearly struck in his son. For a moment, he is quiet, holding the other’s gaze, studying him in the silence. But, despite the knowledge that he has never seen him (something he has had to learn in the past months, his memories often coming back piecemeal and shattered), he knows that there is something connecting them—a thread bound irrevocably between them. “I am glad to meet you.”
12-13-2015, 04:53 PM (This post was last modified: 12-13-2015, 04:59 PM by Trystane.)
When they embrace, he imagines himself outside of his body. Away from this intimate space, somewhere high above — watching from a distance, meddling with clouds and sunshine in the stead of their obviously emotional reacquaintance.
He knows he is an actor in this. They do not, but he is entwined. To him it is as much his as it is theirs — perhaps if he only knew the circumstance of their parting he would think differently. His unfamiliarity is not half so mighty in its tragedy. Not half as violent, and only an infinitesimal minute compared to the threatening everlastingness that should have kept them away from each other in any way but spiritually.
If he only knew what the two of them had gone through to find themselves here. A queer and unexpected together. He had never been promised an eternity without his father, only dared to find him in the throng. But that binding promise had been broken, and he has found him.
But in many ways he is but a boy still, he feels his own emotions much stronger than anyone else's. Not lacking empathy, or consideration, but passionately hungry to sate his own needs. To embrace and be embraced; to have known both these men for so, so much longer.
The young stallion is transfixed. He clings to every words, for he knows Magnus' exposition to be a part of him. A part of his family history. But he leaves much out. Because it is unnecessary — the object of his devoted attention knows the perverse details, and they are both choking on the impossible sweetness of it all. And it is not until they turn to him that he finds his own mind blank. Battling inertia, the buckskin stallion turn his eyes to his feet.
“...but, you seem so familiar to me. I cannot place why.” He grins faintly, crooked and awkward as he contemplates the sheer power of heredity. “It's funny,” He clears his throat, yet unwilling to raise his eyes, “only, I think I've heard your name before.” But that's not it, not at all what he means to say. “Well, I think maybe,” The words “I am your son” are too difficult, he chooses an easier way, “my mother mentioned it before. Maybe you know her? Vineine. Maybe that's it.” Youthful cowardice, it gives him the courage to look up.
He is ill prepared for this situation, and who could be? Yet, it would seem that death is not quite as permanent for some as it is for others. Magnus stands beside his son, and he smells of life where there should be the stench of death. He smells of home. Fiero can remember days in the sunlight of Heaven’s Gates, back when his mother and father reigned. He remembers staying until he could no longer. Those early years were full of pretending for the sake of his sister, Lylah. He wonders silently if his entire life has been an act, because here he stands in the same Meadow that has been here for centuries, with a dead man, and an unknown son, and somehow it seems more believable than anything he has ever known.
“If I would have known, I would have come for you.” The unquestioning happiness he feels at his father’s embrace lingers for a small while, before guilt creeps in. The words bring in a heavy sadness to his eyes. Months ago, Fiero had mistaken his father’s scent for a trick, a ghost. Instead of believing that he could be alive, Fiero had shunned the possibility, and sulked away in the Meadow, where he did not have to pretend - where he did not have to be strong for anyone. The realization that Magnus’ scent had been very real, that Fiero could have found him, but didn’t, cuts him to his core.
He simply says, “I know.” and smiles despite his guilt. He has always been a good pretender.
But, there is so much more left to reveal. While Magnus has been beneath ocean waves, Fiero has been beneath an ocean of ignorance. Here, a fully grown stallion stands, that is clearly his own son.
Of course, he remembers Vineine. He remembers her as the scent of honeysuckle, and the taste of salty skin. He nearly chokes on the sweetness as he remembers where he stands. Memories come flooding, like saltwater into lungs. He drowns in these revelations, as the fire of dusk slowly fades into cool blues, and grays.
“I do know her.” He says slowly, carefully. He watches his son as he stares at the ground. To say he has never wondered about the possibilities of he and Vineine’s consummation would be a lie. The truth is spoken here more clearly than words now, and Fiero finds some sort of resolve. The tender foal-hood years have been missed. Fiero’s chance at fatherhood has passed. He knows better than to expect Trystane to connect with him after years spent as strangers, but he cannot help but hope for embrace.
“Forgive me for not finding you sooner.” He says, to both of them, no longer able to keep the guilt from tightening around his throat. He looks to the ground, searching for composure.
![[Image: gqYjsHr.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/KjqNDKxc/gqYjsHr.png)
