"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
ith the lockdown lifted, Wound finds herself finally able to travel past Tephra’s shores. As much as she loves the sulfuric island, there’s a hidden piece of her that remains unsettled. Perhaps it is an old habit from her childhood days, when her brothers never allowed her to settle in one place for too long before they were moving again. There’s a wandering spirit nestled in the depths of her heart, one that pinches when she remains inside Tephra for too long. It is often pleased by the numerous diplomatic travels she must go on (to Loess and to Hyaline and to Ischia) but when the lockdown forced her to remain within the borders, her agitation became obvious.
She heaves a sigh of relief in the Meadow, now. With spring fully-fledging, the clearing is bustling with activity. Wound’s heart warms at the sight of leggy children floundering through high grass and tumbling against their mothers’ sides (though her heart aches too, for the love of another child against her own shoulder). A soft smile finds her face as she finds a willow tree nearby.
The soft, long branches brush against her back as she moves beneath the shade. The sweeping leaves tickle at her umber body, dragging along her silvery mane as she walks. She’s a pretty contrast, standing in the shade with the emerald grass beneath her and the dull green above her and the blue sky even higher still and the silver-brown of her body, and some would even go to call her gorgeous if it weren’t for the deformation of her leg.
Wound’s eyes spot a newcomer to Beqanna — a tall, dark stallion with a scar against his mouth — look at her with eyes so accusing she can feel the mistrust like a hot summer day. Where before her cheeks might have flared red with embarrassment, now she merely offers the stallion a generous, forgiving smile and turns her attention back to watch a pair of twins (a yearling and a newborn) tousle in a bed of lacy white flowers.
Freedom is a rare and glorious gift. Soaring high above the land, Belgaer imagines that such a luxury existed to him. Not that his home resembled anything close to a prison. He was grateful for the position of trust he’d been granted when he father had taken the throne, but the weight had been heavy upon his shoulders.
His wings flapped with rhythmic succession as he closed his eyes against the gloriously comforting touch of the wind as it brushed along the length of him. The sea that surrounded his island home was far behind him and, having just left Tephra, a quick visit to the luscious Meadow was a welcome respite. Spotting the massive expanse of wildflowers and clover he lands deftly among them, his nose instantly greeted by the sweet smell of spring grass.
He lowered his muzzle to the ground and took a giant mouthful, relishing in the taste of it. Though there are others around him, he is glad to have a moment to himself. Lately it had been a rare thing. Folding his wings upon his back he walks through the tall grass, relishing in its tickling touches as the sprigs brushed along the soft of his skin. It was easy to believe that the world was at peace in that moment. Though many eyes watched him it was doubtful that he would be recognized as a son of Ischia’s king. Even so, Brennen had many and he was of no greater significance of any of his other siblings.
There were times, however, that he imagined the pride he would feel to be chosen as his father’s heir. Both immortal, he would be proud to stand beside his father through the ever-changing world that they would be forced to endure.
Approaching a cluster of trees his eyes momentarily fall upon the lithe figure of a black mare. He smiles politely in her direction before stealing some shade for his own. A modest distance from her, he lowers his head to graze.
espite the unrest that settles across Beqanna like a thick, suffocating blanket, the Meadow is surprisingly peaceful. The tall spring grasses are a feast for many and there are horses of all walks of life grazing among the emerald, pink, and yellow colors. Flowers blossom alongside rugged brush while the trees have finally dawned their leafy-clothing once more. The bright, cloudless sky adds the perfect splash of color to the wide clearing and Wound finds herself sighing aloud at the sight of it all.
A chestnut stallion catches her eye, distracting her from the twins who have now chased after their disappearing mother. He seems friendly enough, offering her a polite smile amidst the tall grass, and Wound decides to make her way toward him. She’s here to get away from Tephra, true, but that doesn’t mean she can’t make friends along the way.
A warm nicker leaves the clutches of her throat as she approaches, her slender chest pushing through the greenery. Coffee brown eyes inspect the man closer, taking in the russet of his wings and the splash of white upon his body. “I hope I’m not bothering you,” she says quietly. Her voice is a slender hush upon the springtime breeze, but it is there nonetheless. “My name’s Wound.” Her eyes take in the reaction of his face, curious to know if her attempt will be shouldered away or warmly accepted.
The grass is sweet upon his taste buds. Different from the usual island fare he’d been raised upon. Bathed in the coolness of the shadow of his chosen spot, he relished in the simplicity of the rare moment of quiet. Although he had made diplomacy his life’s purpose, the constant chatter had grown unescapably loud. The winter had been a torrent of missions for the islanders. Striving for peace had required the chestnut had rarely been home. He’d missed his siblings – and his parents. It was becoming easier to accept, however. The new life he led was vastly different than any he’d known thus far, but it was oddly comforting to know that this would not be the final change he would experience throughout his endless life. Immortality was a heavy burden to carry, but it was one he strove to embrace.
The sound of foals at play is a welcome distraction from the sudden darkness of his thoughts and Belgaer smiles despite himself. Instantly he is reminded of Khaeli and the newest sibling he had yet to meet. Innocent in every way, the twins’ smiles represented the good he believed still existed in Beqanna. His eyes do not remain upon them for long as a soft voice beckons for his attention. He turns around in time to see the black mare who’s shade he’s shared approaching, a kind smile upon her face.
Her brown eyes are friendly and he mirrors the expression, her gentle voice greeting him, lyrical and light.
“Not at all,” he reassures with a welcoming nod. “I am the one who intruded upon your shade, after all.” He smiles teasingly. “My name is Belgaer.”
It is not often that he can escape the weight of his identity and it was liberating to steal a moment for himself. When paired with his father’s name, he became somehow different. Royalty, even.
This is something Wound has learned in her years of life — for there to be birth there must also be death, for there to be summer there must also be winter, for there to be good there must also be evil. The kindness of a heart can only be noticed when there is the darkness of a heart to compare it against. The blue of a summer sky can only be noticed when there is the overcast of a snowstorm to compare it against. Balance — good, bad; right, wrong — is what holds the world together and stops it from dropping into the realm of chaos.
The children are just one piece of the balance of life. They have so much potential — there is the probability they will grow up to be beautiful, handsome adults who lead a kingdom to security and happiness and there is the probability they will grow up to connive their way into the pockets of many and steal away the futures of others. It is why Wound loves children so tenderly; her desire to protect them and mold them into the kind hearts of their world is one of her many passions.
She notes his own eyes traveling toward the twins, even as they rapidly disappear with screams of glee and playfulness. “It’s only my shade if it’s my home,” she teases and a laugh follows her next breath. It’s been years since the stumbling, awkward Wound fell into Warrick’s chest and since then she’s been able to speak easier with men. Even the handsome ones.
“You smell like this isn’t your home, either.” Although the scents of wind-scrubbed sky and spring sun drift from his russet feathers, the undertone of Ischia runs deep in his skin. It’s familiar to her nose, after visiting the island kingdom not long ago. “If you see any enemies” — she doesn’t have to say their names, certain he knows who they are just as she does — “promise me you won’t run away screaming without telling me first.”
There is a warmth about her. He sees it as she watches the two foals at play. For a moment he wonders if she had any children of her own. Though, he did not see any hanging about her, he recognized her longing. His whole adult life he’d fought to protect those incapable of doing so themselves. The young and the old – they all had stories needing to be told. And, though his body remained youthful, Brennen’s own stories contained many valuable lessons to be learned. He had seen the changing of the land many times and now he sat rightfully upon the throne of Ischia. Children were, and always would be, the future of the land. Vital to their survival.
There was something in her eyes as they turned to meet his own. A familiarity that stirred his insides. Heaviness and hope filled her chocolate gaze with a vibrancy he feared he lacked. Kindly, she dismissed his concerns with a laugh. She was nervous, he sensed, and he found himself wondering if his presence there beside her was to blame. Smiling, he hoped to set her at ease. The mare is quick to point out the salty scent that clung to him. It seemed that no matter how long he was away, he could not escape the truth of his loyalty. Ischia ran thickly through his veins and it was no surprise to him that it was so obvious.
“No, this is not my home,” he agreed with a warming chuckle. “Ischia is the place of my birth and where my allegiances lie. How about you, Wound, where is it that you call home?”
He sensed her to be his ally. If she had not been, he doubted that she would have welcomed him there beside her quite so warmly. Still, she was not wrong to point out the dangers that lay in wait just beyond the shadows. He felt them growing stronger with every passing day, even if he wasn’t quite sure of their identities.
“You have my word.”
The Prodigal Son
@[wound] His last sentence makes me sad... foreshadowing maybe?
