"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
03-17-2018, 08:17 PM (This post was last modified: 03-17-2018, 08:17 PM by Cagney.)
there's an ocean inside my head; waves that don't ever rest
won't you take your time on me? 'cause we got nowhere else to be
The sun rises over the water, and the stallion stands in the very shallowest water at the edge of the river. There is a bite to the air, but spring has settled into Beqanna deep enough that even this quiet water at the edge is not frozen. Of course because the river moves quickly and is very full, it doesn’t freeze very much, but it’s nice to look at the patterns in the ice at the edge. The boy should know – he had gone back to look, to admire, but then he had returned to the present.
(The present still fits like an old skin he’d already shed: poorly.)
It’s getting easier, to find this time-place, the longer he stays conscious in it. Stays awake, rather than hiding in the pockets of unused time where no one can find him. Even his daughter, though she hadn’t tried very hard; he had been a substandard father, and she had always preferred Brennen’s guidance to his own. Of course, he can’t blame her. Few could live up to the standards of Brennen as a father.
(Even with all of his failings, his father has never given up on him. Even now, he has welcomed him back to the fold.)
Back into the fold, and back into his confidence, as if Cagney were gone a day instead of a decade. He desires to prove himself to his sire now just as much as when he was a child, and Brennen has made a single request so far – see if he can find any more. Any more stallions who would be well-suited and inclined to membership in a Brotherhood, men with the spirit of the Tundra in their blood. Even if they’ve never seen the Tundra, don’t remember the feel of permafrost beneath their hooves. He has come here, first, to look.
Hearts will never be practical, until they can be unbreakable. (But I still want one.)
The Tin Man hadn't been this far north before--not having wings or other superpowers meant that his traveling was stuck at a normal twenty to sixty miles a day, and with the winter and the hills of Loess, that was usually cut in half.
Plus he was a little freaked out at how his winter coat hadn't grown an inch in the past three months. The Tin Man was still glossy black and speckled with white, despite the last of winter's ice still on the ground and the crunching frost under his hooves. He hadn't seen anyone older than the foals who were seriously affected by the seasons, either--most horses past one or two years old just seemed to wander around without much problem.
Were they all not aging, or was everyone just frozen in time (so to speak) after eating the grass and drinking the water?
Oh look, a distraction from the freaky magic! He trotted over to the stallion by the river, trying to avoid the chill of the shallows.
"Hello!" He called. "I haven't seen you before. What's your name?"
there's an ocean inside my head; waves that don't ever rest
won't you take your time on me? 'cause we got nowhere else to be
The sound of hooves and the barest crunch of ice and splash of shallow water alerts him someone is coming, but the roan waits until the last minute to turn and look at the man coming upon him; he is too busy trying to analyze his own flood of relief that someone has approached him, and thus he will not have to summon the bravery to approach a stranger right off the bat. He can ease back into the unfortunate skill of socializing, and be ready to do the approach himself another time.
(He’s not sure he even believes himself.)
And another bright point, it’s someone he doesn’t know. Not that he knows many, but how terribly awkward it would be for him to encounter most of his previous acquaintances he doesn’t even want to begin to think. His goal in life right now is to avoid anyone who might have idea idea WHICH of Brennen’s children he is, unless of course they happen to also be homecoming Brothers.
(He doesn’t want to have to answer for what he did, and he doesn’t want to think of her, or of the war, or of his failings.)
Somehow, Cagney summons a polite smile, turning his body away from the bank to face the stranger. “My name is Cagney,” he responds, and at least that is not unfamiliar feeling on his tongue; those words slide easily out of his mouth into the chilly air. “And yours?”
Hearts will never be practical, until they can be unbreakable. (But I still want one.)
"Cagney," he mused. Nope, not ringing any bells. Neither was the other stallion's scent; he looked pretty normal, but there was still a definite bite of magic, so Cagney probably had fire-powers or shapeshifting, or whatever. "I'm the Tin Man."
And Cagney didn't seem very enthused to meet him. Oh boy, he was probably one of THOSE stallions. The Tin Man didn't go closer or farther, but he at least tried to keep things chill (no pun intended) and shook out his mane.
"Are you new here? At least, new to the river," he adds. "I haven't seen you around before."
