[private] sunrise never waits

[Rhaegor]

Not home, but close.
(So, so achingly close).

The Silver Cove. A young land which, when born, welcomed Hyaline's Sanctuarians without hesitation when the plague struck. A prince three or four years of age at that time, Rhaegor remembers much, or would if he allowed himself to. During recent times he prefered to forget (or at least to ignore). What parties, courtships, heartbreaks, and family gatherings he'd once had here no longer offered him solace as once they may have.

Solace.

His mother's name sounds foreign in his mind and for a moment, he wants to go to Tephra. Of course he knew that his mothers resided there now, returned as of the last lunar cycle and expecting twins; Kagerus' dreambound news-bearing knew no boundaries, to say the least. Not that Rhae had minded the intrusion; during those hours, he felt at once elated and rested for the first time in months, joy at his mothers' presences (for Solace accompanied Kagerus that night) and the heavy dose of peace that came with his bay mother's touch granting him the perfect lullaby.

The birth had gone awry, however, and the delivery of that news brought less joy and more sorrow. More ignorance. More deflection. Though he yearned to go and meet his younger brother, Indius, he found himself travelling to the other side of the godforsaken Beqanna continent, back to his own birth home.

Past it, actually.
He could not bear to see the land's laken heart just now.

So, he wanders further, shivering despite the full fluff of his wings. Winter whistled around him with a frigid tune, buffeting him to and fro with nary a concern for his well being. He could sympathize. When a warm gust of air interrupted his mindless goings, however, Rhaegor paused. The first act of intentionality that in weeks.

A step further revealed that here, winter died. Or rather, not here, but inside of himself. Nausea came over him, the wordless sensations projected by another into himself an alien feeling.

Stop, he broadcasted, using a radius far larger than necessary to reach Lilliana. Though he could not see the mare, he hard her thoughts: Think of the softness of the grass as it danced. Think of a delicate curve of an ear. Stop, please stop.

He had gone far too long without feeling to be prepared for this barrage of emotion, invisible yet poignant as it reached him by accident. Reeling back on his heels in an attempt to rejoin the winter, Rhae's reflexes took over and, with a panicked curl of his neck, he vomited a light beam unto his chest, burning and cauterizing the flesh there, where multiple marks already lay.

All at once, the warmth ceased. There Rhae stood, his nose just brushing that frosted earth, exhausted.

.

@[lilliana]