"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
Winter glimmers with it's dying light. The frost and snow give way to a mix of sopping rain, dripping and cold off the end of his whiskered lips. The winged male stands still as stone as he watches how the sun creeps from it's bed in a sleepy-eyed yawn. Silver eyes admire the way the sky bleeds into the darkness of the night sky. Banishing the moon and stars to their beds.
Vivid pinks, oranges, and golds.
The sky dresses herself in the finest textiles so she may rule the hours while in awe of her subjects. Lior breaks his stance now. Black marble coming to life, hard and shining. The cold rain has burned off in the wink of sunlight and so he moves towards the open meadow. Finely feathered hooves lift in fall rhythmically as he walks. Each leather wing upon his back lifts to shake off the collected rain, first one and then the other. Lior admits silently to himself that he could enjoy a touch of warmth. The winter has felt as thought it has lingered for too long.
He finds a place to root himself, the sound of his own blood pumping is the only sound that reaches him. In the early morning hours, the animals still slept except for him.
This was his hour. This is the sacred peace when the world shifts, changes, is reborn under his watchful mercury eyes.
Winter begins its slow fade into spring, and with it comes the promise of new life. Indeed, the blue and white mare feels she is fair bursting with it. She has gone from slender and lithe to quite, well, round. She has no doubt she looks quite a sight. Her narrow shoulders give way to the bulge of her belly, displaying her state for the world to see. She often wonders if she will be giving birth to the largest child in history.
The other option is twins, and frankly, she refuses to consider the possibility. She had only signed on for one.
Regardless, such considerations leave her rather irritable. The chilly winter rain does not help. It soaks into her thick coat, settling against her skin and bringing with it a chill that snow does not. That perhaps begs the question of why she is out and about on such a miserable day. Her restless legs had unfortunately not allowed her to linger in her home however. She has never been one to remain idle, and this pregnancy has only made things worse.
So she finds herself in the forest, where the bare limbs of the trees offer at least some mild protection from the wet. By pure happenstance, she finds herself crossing the path of a large winged stallion. She recognizes him, though they have never had opportunity to meet. There are no secrets from her however. She knows he is the father of the child Nayl carries. As a relatively new member of Nerine, she had taken it upon herself to learn as much as she could of the kingdom she now inhabits.
There is no hesitation in her step as she nears him, her blue gaze fixed upon him in bold consideration. "Anything in particular that brings you out on such dismal day?"
heartfire
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
Her approach does not escape him. He can detect her tender movements easily as she makes her way towards him. Lior greets her with a low grunt, a nod. Silver eyes are over her, tracing her lines, noting her curves and edges. It was quiet a miserable day for a pregnant woman to be on her own and talking to strange stallions.
But he detects the salt on her skin and the way her mane and tail weave in gentle waves that only the sea air could conjure. She is of Nerine though he does not know her. Lior would ask later once the quiet solitude of the wet morning has been burned off by the rising sun. "No." The stallion replies with a slight turn of his lips with a voice that is low, gravel under tires, as he speaks almost intimately to the woman. Lior preferred to not waste his words, to not shatter the delicacy of this moment that he now shared with her.
"Lior." His dark lips murmur close to the smoke and water mare's ear as he watches how deer emerge from the forest edges to walk through the mist like ghosts. He admires their carelessness, their ability to bound away, tails white like warning flags. But for now, the pair of equines are not sighted. His gaze shifts back to the woman, cupping her face with his gaze. "And you?" He asks lowly with his watching pewter eyes. "And of Nerine." A twinge of a smile edges his lips once more as he mentions his home gruffly, endearingly.
He is a man of few words, a fact the roan mare can appreciate. Truth be told, she something more of a conversationalist, but she has never been one to dance around the point. Many have been put off by her bluntness in the past. Something tells her he would not be offended quite so easily.
The rain continues to drizzle down, matting her thick coat against her skin. Rivulets darken her rounded sides, the long, dark strands of her mane plastered against her neck. Beads of water glimmer briefly at the ends before falling to the already damp earth beneath her feet. She is tempted to shake herself, but she knows it would serve no purpose. Until the rain ceases, she is simply doomed to be wet. Despite the shower, it does not wash away the salt of Nerine on her skin. It had permeated her too well by now, softening her coat and curling her locks. So it comes as no surprise that he recognizes where she is from. Nerine has such a recognizable scent, and even if she did not know him, she would recognize that upon him at the very least.
But she does know him, and she his curious. One of her prevailing sins, that curiosity, but she would not give it up. It satisfies a part of her that nothing else ever could.
She offers him a faint grin, a mere uptilt of her lips, as he introduces himself with a single word. She had known his name, of course (she would not be much of a spy if she didn’t), but she would have been immensely surprised if he had known hers. ”Heartfire,” she offers, just as simply.
Tipping her head slightly, she studies him with eyes of crystalline blue, intensity in that bright gaze. She does not speak for a moment, allowing the silence to stretch perhaps longer than is polite. When she does finally speak, her voice is soft, almost contemplative. ”Of Nerine,” she affirms. ”And you are the queen’s lover.”
It is a statement, not a question. She says nothing more, curious to see how he would respond to such an assertion.
heartfire
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
The fact that knows of him is not a surprise. Nayl clings to his very skin and hair. She saturates him though he can not say he does not want it. Silver gray eyes watch her quietly, standing over her though he is not looming. He studies the pretty mare, the blue of her eyes, the way blue smoke clashes against the white splash of her hide.
"Heartfire." Lior presses her name against the roof of his mouth, testing how it feels on his lips. He falls quiet for he is not one to babble senselessly just for the comfort of a filled space between souls. He does not smile nor offer even a hint of amusement. Instead, he merely cocks a hind limb as he relaxes in front of his company. "How long have you lived in Nerine?" The male was the Queensguard above all else. He had been invited to the coastal lands for that purpose. He also supposes he should attempt to know the residents and their faces.
It was not hurtful to know a little bit about the fair mare. Lior falls quiet as the long tangle of his tail sticks to his hide as the rain continues to drizzle down. there was a quiet comfort in the feel of raindrop pattering his already dark coat.
