"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
From my shelter I can see the rain coming down in heavy sheets. The clouds overhead have dulled the sun, but it is barely midmorning and already the day has been ruined. I had plans to make it all the way to the sea today, but had woken to the sound of heavy thunder instead. Mother and Twin were still sleeping, and sneaking away had been easy enough. I’d only made it a half mile before the rain started, and rather than walk in the cold and the wet, I’d decided to stop and wait for it to end. It’s been an hour, which is basically a whole year, and still the rain is falling down. I’d pressed myself below a rocky overhang, one of the many flat boulders of Sylva. This one had a bit of a lip on it, too large for a six-month-old filly to shelter under, but plenty of space for a young puppy. I’m just as pale in this form as I am as a horse, though there is no shock of dark hair on my head anymore, only a pair of floppy silken ears. My nose is much sharper, as is my hearing and eyesight, which is utterly useless when there is nothing to see. All the animals of the woods are hiding from the chilly autumn rain just like I am. With a quiet sigh, I lay my head on my outstretched forelegs and doze off.
It was much like the last time, and the two of them had avoided each other. Though, he wouldn't know if she came looking for him or not, since he hadn't returned until now. He'd taken his granted freedom - after taking her first - and done exactly as he knew he would.
He'd slipped through that disgusting water at the Meadow's coastline and took his fill, the filthy grime clinging to his smooth skin. One would come for a drink, so innocent and clueless of what lies beneath, and he'd launch himself out, trap them to his body and drag them under. Mmm, how he loved when they sing. The first few were quick and gone almost instantly, half-starved as he was on a captive-king's diet. He drank them dry and devoured them, seasoned with the salt of the sea. Mmm, yeah. It'd been a real good... vacation. As free as he was meant to be. Free to feast, the insatiable hunger burning.
Finally, he was back though. Had someone to meet, or apparently two of them. His. They damn well better be. And he slid from the ocean, strolling easily through the network of caves that led out to this coastline, following the path he knew would take him to Sylva, until he caught that strange little scent. His. She smelled of damp fur. And of Djinni. Good enough for him.
He walked steadily through the downpour, entirely at home with being drenched, his black coat shining and twisted hair dripping. It wasn't far from how the rest of the world typically saw him. He didn't hesitate as he neared, settled right on down at the edge of her little shelter as if they'd known each other this whole time with her almost at his side and staring out together. As if he hadn't been ripping bodies apart and savoring bleeding organs when she was born. It was a long moment before he finally spoke, his voice soft and deep.
"Hello," he said quietly, turning the dark, blue-gray of his eyes on her, that natural charm in his smile that was just simply there whether he wished it or not. "What's your name?" She certainly didn't get this... animal thing from him. He most definitely was not any kind of furry - No, more like his Ivar, there. Would be armored scales and a body to match. Still hadn't fixed that little issue, however. Hadn't figured out how.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked his daughter.
come down to the black sea swimming with me go down with me, fall with me, lets make it worth it
My eyes snap open at the sound of footsteps. They are coming from behind – from overhead. Beyond that, the rain has drowned most smells, so I have only one sense to identify this stranger. I know that I am safe in Sylva, but I am still cautious as I lift my pale head up. He comes closer, closer until he stands right beside me. I stand fluidly (how different from my awkward early childhood), and as I do the canine shape falls away.
I look up at the dark stranger, meeting his gaze with a pair of blue-grey eyes that perfectly match his own. I’ve only ever seen them in my reflection in the forest ponds, but it is something else entirely to see them on someone else’s face. For a long while I remain silent in the space behind his question, seemingly unaffected by the charm of the stallion.
My memories of my older brother are hazy, but I am certain he had a bold splash of Mother’s paint hide across his withers. My foggy memory holds the warm brown eyes in a pale face most strongly, eyes that are nothing like those of the stallion in front of me.
“You’re my father.” I say, the words slipping from my mouth as soon as they occur to me. The lightness of my voice betrays my youth, and it matches the soft wonder that brightens my pale face. Mother’s mantra has been “your Father went to the sea”. She never answered my queries about when – or if – he was coming back, what had made him leave, or when he’d gone. He was a taboo subject, and yet here he is in front of me!
“I’m Starlin.” I tell him, and then because I have always wanted to know the answer: “What’s the sea like?”
