"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
08-07-2016, 10:10 PM (This post was last modified: 08-07-2016, 10:11 PM by Camelia.)
I will run the streets and hostile lands, I will touch the rain with all I have
I will breathe the air, to scream it loud. My feet will never touch the ground.
She does not think her childhood has led up to a few inspiring years as queen. She does not think her life has come to this and she will never rise any higher. She does not think she will be caught in the riptide of nostalgia for the rest of her years. She does not think her mind will be lost to the wishing for the good days. She will move on. She will continue to inspire. She will love. She will seek a greater opportunity. She will rise to pave the way for love and peace. She will become something different.
But before Camelia can inspire and love and rise and cherish, she must seek out those from the past. She must make amends with the dearests she left behind – with Mast, Finner, and especially Topsail. Mast is an important factor and so she seeks him out first. She wraps her slender body in her shawl of boldness and steps out; away from the quiet corner of Beqanna she staked her lonely claim. Camelia will not resort to a timid lifestyle anymore. She is destined for greater things – even if they happen with her muzzle beginning to gray and her joints beginning to stiffen.
She seeks him out in the meadow first. It seems a good place as ever to search for her beloved, among the swarm of unknown faces and the chaos of foreign scents. It will be easier to distinguish a familiar – a loved, generous, and desirable – body among a sea of unknowns. Camelia settles herself in a good sighting distance. She can see the expanse of the meadow unfurling before her like a blossoming flower. Her warm brown eyes scan the faces of those visiting with a careful expression, looking quickly but gently for the one her heart adores.
Time is a foreign concept to the lonely man. The days pass they way of the seasons; slow, painfully slow. Sunrises fade into sunsets as the days become nothing more than a haze. Mast was there, lost in that odd limbo. He breathed because his body demanded air be in his lungs; he ate because his body demanded food be in his belly. But he did not live, no. He was little more than a ghost to the world now, drifting through the hours in painful loneliness. Gone were the titles and the lover; even his children had disappeared. He had every reason to be dead, but his body was stubborn.
He was not as weak in spirit as his fathers before him.
He had languished in the Valley for some many years, wounded. His heart as broken as his body, he had no reason to leave the confines of the shadows. At some point his daughter took over the throne there, but it gave him no pleasure to see her cavorting with the forces he had once fought so hard to stamp down. She bore him grandchildren, but again, he couldn’t bring himself to care. It was likely the children were just pawns in whatever perverse game she was playing. But one day, one day when his eyes opened, the shadows became too much. Like a man waking from a coma, he came to his senses with a start, eyes wide and breaths coming in short gasps. He had to leave this place, this den of iniquity that was robbing him of his former self.
His furious gallop carried him to the Meadow, sweat plastering his inky black mane to his thin neck. As the sun hit his face he felt renewed, like he was breaking the surface of the water and taking a much needed breath. He had no destination in mind, but his feet seemed hell bent on carrying him as fast as they could. The trees blew by as a greenish blur; he only needed to run, to feel. To prove to himself that he wasn’t a living dead man stuck in limbo, but a stallion of flesh and blood, a once king and sire of queens. But the scent of lilac and honeysuckle was enough to stop him in his tracks. Her. There was no doubt, and he whirled around, his brown eyes wide and frantically searching. Finally he saw her, and that was all he needed. His salvation, his reason to continue. He had no words for her, not yet, but he could not close the gap between them fast enough. As soon as he was close enough, the taste of her was on his mouth. He lipped at her throat, at her mane, at the top of her poll. Finally, and lastly, his mouth found her jaw and there is where he lingered, the tears streaming unfettered down his face. “Camelia…” he choked, unable to fully articulate the words with the sob in his throat and his lips on her face, but trying all the same. She would understand; she always did.
I will run the streets and hostile lands, I will touch the rain with all I have
I will breathe the air, to scream it loud. My feet will never touch the ground.
During those lonely days, Camelia spent much of her time thinking of the past. It was easy to do, especially when everything reminded her of her family. A bird’s song in a nearby tree would spur the memory of her mother sweetly whispering the songs of faeries and magic. Walking under the weepy branches of a willow tree might encourage a game of tag with the ghostly image of Mast as a child. Glancing up at night to see a shooting star might bring forth the distinct memory of standing atop a tall hill with her father, nuzzled against his warm side, watching the stars chase each other.
She spent her nights dreaming about dancing between flowers and kissing his neck.
She spent her days watching clouds form into his handsome face and hearing her mother’s voice.
Camelia could have kept herself updated on the whereabouts of her family, but she found herself unwilling to venture past the boundaries of her miniature home. At least, up until the point of her revelation. And now she is sitting in the Meadow, perched like a dove waiting for her partner.
And then she sees him.
Her Mast. Her childhood friend. Her best friend. Her partner in crime. Her king. Her beloved. Her darling. Her Mast. He is racing, inky mane pulled against the tendrils of the wind he stirs up, sweat dripping against his chest. Her heart flutters and her mouth opens. His name rips from her throat like a crack of thunder, a word she has only said in her dreams. “Mast.” He cannot hear her over the pounding of his hooves, she knows – besides, her voice is a throaty sound, aching with the loss of speaking over the years.
But he must have noticed her. He must have felt the thread tying their hearts together tugging closer, pulling and ripping and jerking to move beside her. And he turns. He looks. He runs again, this time toward her, and her heart – oh God, her poor heart – shakes and jumps and skips a beat and drops and flies and flutters and melts all at once. Camelia whispers his name, savoring the way it tastes on her lips after so long. “Mast.” He kisses her all over and she shudders at his touch. It revives her, rejuvenating the determination that brought her here.
His voice reaches her ears and she moves, pressing her body into him. She can’t get enough. Camelia’s eyes flood with tears, unbidden and unashamed. She presses a kiss against his sweaty neck, then closer to his ear, then along his cheek. Her name on his tongue is felt deep in her aching, full, loving chest. She feels what he doesn’t say, and what he does. Camelia’s lips find his ear and she whispers the three words she’s been aching to say all these years. “I love you.”
