"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
09-07-2016, 03:42 PM (This post was last modified: 09-07-2016, 03:43 PM by Ashley.)
They had been rejected. Or…rather, they had been told to wait. Ashley did not do well with waiting. Patience was never something the buckskin male was ever very good. One does not simply tell a magic king—former King—that they must be patient and wait. Hurry up and wait does not sound like very much fun to anyone. Ashley had breathed his obscenities towards the establishment of the all-mother as he descended the “easy” slope of the mountain—if there could be termed such a thing) and found himself back in the foothills of the meadow, at the foot of the great mountain. He would go up again when he could. He would petition for his blood, for his moment in the sun. The band he had surrounded himself with was bound together by land ties, rather than blood. Their pride would hold them together, and as long as they had the faith within them to continue to stand steadfast, he was sure that Ea would lead them to a safe place—with or without the fairy’s blessing.
And so Ashley found himself waiting, getting more restless day after day. And the more he waited, the more agitated he got with himself, and the situation he found himself in. Who was he that he would allow himself to dance so wittingly for them? Had he forgotten his pride?
And so, finding the need for companionship… and perhaps some information, Ashley went off in search of Tiphon. The two men had had no time to actually talk during the meeting before the rejection, as Ashley was want to call it, and the magician felt that there was much to be learned from him. Perhaps he could impart some knowledge as well. It just felt like they had more in common than perhaps would otherwise appear to the naked eye.
BUT HOW COULD YOU KNOW THE SWEETEST SUFFERING OF MOVING ON
The silent refusal was a serrated knife stabbing and twisting into his heart, severing his artery. Beqanna watched him bleed in that moment of stupefaction. How had they been refused? His teeth clenched together and the muscles in his neck and shoulders twitched in aggravation. There was nothing to do except wait, but patience doesn’t come easily to most of them. How long must they bide their time until being granted sanctuary? How long must they brace against the wintery gusts that nip at their heels?
The descent was quiet and bitter. There was venom on his tongue and fire in his eyes, but Tiphon kept his lips pursed tightly shut before branching from the others. Their denial raises his hackles and so he spares the others from his anger by wandering off on his own, but he predicted it would be short-lived. They’ve only just congregated; it would be unwise to separate now.
Ashley finds him and they share a distressed and agitated glance. A huffing breath follows and Tiphon raises his head. ”How?” his voice is acidic, foreign to the calm demeanor that he usually adorns. ”How the hell do we get denied while they—“ his proud head jerks toward the mountain where he had seen his grandfather and the Tundra king clamber up as well as another small group, ”they get a refuge.” A snort trembles his nostrils as he inches to the side, rustling his wings in agitation.
To be in the position that he was in, to be a part of another generation, and surrounded with creatures that he needed to get to know and understand…He was, to most of them, a walking relic—an ancestor. And yet he walked among them with little care of their lines or lineage. It did not matter where they came from, but what they chose to make of themselves. Though, now without their abilities, it seems that they are without that as well.
It was apparent to him that he simply did not belong here; among them. There was just no space for him and his old-world ways among this new generation, and yet, there were still a few who hung to the old world, remembering (or having been taught) what things were like way back when. Tiphon had always struck him as one who understood the world from a higher plane. With his wings and his ability to lift himself off the ground, he could view them all as they were—pawns for the giving and taking of life and pride. Ashley coughed a little as the thought of his own wings—loss of, for he had been blessed with immortality as to keep the rest of his body in tact—reminded him that he was stuck on the ground.
It was true; they were agitated. They were angry. Men of power, men of knowledge; reduced to peons for the pleasure of another. It was demeaning—it was emasculating. And so as Ashley approached him with the knowledge of the other man’s dark attitude, he gave the angel-man his strong shoulder, slightly guarded. There was no worry in his attacking, but he would not have been himself if he had not approached ready. It is who they were. The need to protect; to conquer. It does not simply go away with the change of your blood. It just simply makes you an angry fallen angel.
“The world is not fair, Tiphon. But what the all-mother has done to us, to expect us to make that climb again. It’s demeaning. Patience is one thing. Embarrassment is entirely another. They were not as they are now in my day. I dare say the hubris of power lies with them—and not with us, as they say.”
