"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
10-10-2018, 11:32 AM (This post was last modified: 10-10-2018, 11:33 AM by Castile.)
There was, in fact, at least one scent that he had nearly forgotten. It was tucked in the far recesses of his memory, almost lost among the cacophony. He had been just a boy then, tucked innocently in Nayl’s shadow when she breached political matters. The on goings of Nerine meant little to Castile at that time, but he was sure to nestle scents and names into a box for one day to recall. That box has since collected dust and cobwebs, but he cracks it open and revisits the vague memory.
Heartfire.
The name is spoken from his mother’s lips, bearing a note of command and respect. She had been around during his childhood, and here she remains even as a decade passes by without hardly notice. A sheepish grin threatens to soften the sharp edges of his face, proud of his recollection when he swallows a lungful of her scent. Desperate for familiarity, Castile weaves through the shrubs and occasional tree, his wings neatly tucked to his sides. When she is within sight, his path straightens and he draws to a halt once he is within reach of her. ”Heartfire,” he replaces his memory of mother’s voice with his own gravely tone. He exudes confidence now, his body criss-crossed with battle scars and with a mind that has since (nearly) mastered the monster that lies deep in his core.
Blinking, he takes into consideration her own standpoint as she looks upon a face that may have just as easily escaped her mind. He wasn’t significant then, not really. He was a shadow, a quiet voice silenced by the immensity of his mother’s. ”You probably don’t remember me,” he shuffles his wings then as their eyes meet, ”I’m Castile.” That, he hopes, is enough. With a glimmer of hope, he eludes using mother’s name, trying to avoid carelessly dropping it in conversations.
In the intervening years since Nayl’s reign, many things had changed in coastal kingdom. Even Heartfire, for all her longevity, has changed. Has become something more. She had been far more youthful then, brash in a way that has since been refined. Ultimately, however, she is still Heartfire. But the faces of the kingdom have all shifted over the years, becoming new, different.
Despite everything, the new faces replacing the old, Heartfire remembers. She has always had a talent for names. For faces. A fortunate thing perhaps, especially given her chosen line of work. Though she doubts Castile remembers exactly what had made her so useful to his mother.
She isn’t surprised when he finds her, picking her out from the unfamiliar faces as the only one recognizable from a day long past and nearly forgotten. He had just been a child then, clinging to his mother’s heels as he had learned the vagaries of the world. He too, had changed. Had become something more. Despite this, there is an old familiarity. A welcome one, though she would never admit to such a thing.
Pale blue gaze shifting to settle upon the marbled stallion, Heartfire considers him impassively for several long moments. Perhaps he had thought himself insignificant then, but Heartfire has always noticed the insignificant. Sometimes, the insignificant turns out to be far more significant than one could ever have guessed.
“I remember you Castile,” she greets, her voice level as her icy gaze fixes on his. After a moment, she continues with faint curiosity, “And what brings you back to Nerine?”
”Oh, you do,” he sheepishly echoes with a low chuckle, his eyes cast down for a moment before lifting to meet hers again. He never assumed himself remarkable or memorable in any way. In Nerine, he was just a boy clutched to mother’s side and shuffling in her shadow. The fact that Heartfire remembers him is both surprising, but admittedly, heartwarming. Liquid fire pours through his veins and melts the discomfort he initially felt upon his return. He isn’t a total outcast; there is at least one familiar face among the sea of new ones. They don’t share much history, but what they have is enough to put him more at ease. A shrug ripples through his shoulders as he considers her question rather methodically. He doesn’t have a grand scheme or debonair plan. ”Purpose,” he begins thoughtfully, thumbing through his memories to recall his initial meeting with Breckin at the border.
But Heartfire’s question doesn’t crave a single-worded answer. It hovers steadily in the air between them, drawing more from Castile as he further broods. ”I’ve only really belonged here,” it could be perceived as weak, pitiful, because he preferred the home of his mother rather than branching out like so many others. ”Hyaline doesn’t sit well and Loess was a place to sleep, but nothing more, really. Being a Regent was incredibly brief,” a husky laughter slips past his lips as his head slowly shakes. There were more responsibilities, yes, but it seemed like it was over in the blink of an eye as a new king ascended the throne, replacing Lepis.
None of it matters now, however. His sights have once again settled on Nerine. A sideways glance finds the Cliffside that he has already enjoyed taking flight from. A crooked grin, a bright-eyed expression. She can see it in him that this is where he has always thrived.
Another sweep of his gaze scrutinizes Heartfire. She remains untouched by time, something that he has noticed in himself as well. ”You haven’t even aged,” he comments accidentally, his thoughts coming to fruition and plunging from the tip of his tongue. ”Has much changed?” He adds quickly, diverting and trying to recover from the odd misstep. Albeit more of a compliment than an insult, mother had always silenced him when he asked her age. She, too, always appeared so young and vibrant. Immortality kissed her, and even him, but he never thought of others outside of their bloodlines. Age still deepens the lines in some faces he has seen and death always seems to loom.
A faint smile touches her lips as she considers the bi-colored stallion with easy curiosity. It’s not often she finds others who welcome her memory with such lack of expectation. Perhaps that is largely her fault, but nevertheless it is rather refreshing. An uncommon moment, where she can pretend they are merely two old acquaintances catching up. Friends almost, for his mother had certainly come closer to the definition of the word than any other. If she had been capable of making lasting friendships, that is. Regrettable, perhaps, that lack.
But she is not one to dwell on regrets.
She makes no comment when he simply says ’Purpse,’ and neither does she need to. Soon enough, he expounds upon the simple answer. She can understand the reasoning, certainly. Though she cannot say she holds any great degree of loyalty for the land itself, it had come to mean something for her as well. And so she returns, again and again. The familiarity drawing her back. And the inhabitants too, ever changing but somehow still the same. Still as powerful and bold.
He is right perhaps, in that they truly thrive here. Those that hunger for what this kingdom can offer.
“Nerine suits you,” she offers by way of response, an acknowledgement that his return had done him well. For all that he’s aged, there is a freshness about him in the way that he settles into the kingdom.
The corners of her lips twitch at his hastily covered comment, a brief amusement. She could hardly take offense to such a statement, and given that she had ensured she would not, an especially true statement as well. She considers his swiftly given follow up question for a moment before responding a bit cryptically, “Yes and no.”
After a moment, she clarifies, “The residents are different, but it is still Nerine.”
