02-14-2017, 07:59 PM
hold me in this wild, wild world
'cause in your warmth I forget how cold it can be
'cause in your warmth I forget how cold it can be
It would be easy to say age had mellowed him, but the truth is, Brennen was born an old soul in many respects. There are, of course, a few things that he is staunchly loyal too, and his fury when those few things are violated is a beautiful (if dangerous) sight to behold. His Tundra, his family, his trusted friends – for them, he would move heaven and earth. But about most issues, he is ambivalent; or, if not ambivalent, at least not prone to fits of passion about it. She drops the words casually in response to his query, and he watches her, a different gravity to the weight of his gaze. “I don’t offer that kind of trust easily,” he finally says, “but neither would I betray my sovereign or my home without quite a bit of advanced warning.” A hint of a smile in his eyes, just the sliver of humor on his face when he says: “I can assure you I will always tell you what I am thinking.”
He had assigned personal loyalty to few of his Kings on their own merit, but always he had been loyal to them insofar as they were the ruling monarchs of the Tundra. Brennen was also not totally above participating in the changing of Kings, through force, mutiny, or neglect, but never on a whim, and never without a very good reason. He cannot guarantee any sort of allegiance to a monarch forever, not without the ability to see all the things they might do in the future, but his personal loyalties, once earned, are quite hard to lose. Too hard, some might say; his loyalty to a mare who had once swapped their son for his daughter with another mare and told none of them was testament to that. (Even then, he had been angry beyond words with Neraza but he understood, he loved her, and he forgave her).
The other task she sets is easier, and he smiles broadly at the thought of teaching would-be warriors once more, at the remembrance of the satisfaction of physical exertion and the sweet burn of wounds acquired in battles both friendly and antagonistic. “That I can do,” he promises with a laugh, “As fighting was my first love, and my attachment to it lingers still.”
She looks away from him, but he waits patiently, feeling that she is not done speaking. Something else brews inside her pretty head and fire-bright eyes, and Brennen will patiently wait for it. For a moment while silence reigns he breaths in the salty air, considers the way the wind tangles his hair and teases his feathers, leaving behind remnants of salt and sand instead of the once-familiar ice and snow. But at her next words, when she finally turns curious eyes on him again, Brennen goes very still (perfectly still), the only sign that he still lives for a long minute of heartbeats is the longing in his eyes. (He can tell himself he will grow fond of Nerine, but it is a stopgap, nothing more; the Brotherhood is more than just a vanished piece of land). “I would give much and more for the return of the Brotherhood.” he says finally, voice so cool it would seem to burn like fire.
At this point, he thinks that she reads him quite well, and he speaks no more. Brennen doesn’t think he needs to explain that there are types of loyalties, and that while personal loyalties can be built brick by brick on respect and affection and trust, they can also be bought. Everyone has a price, even ageless stoic ice-warriors, and he thinks that she has found his even in this singular conversation.
He had assigned personal loyalty to few of his Kings on their own merit, but always he had been loyal to them insofar as they were the ruling monarchs of the Tundra. Brennen was also not totally above participating in the changing of Kings, through force, mutiny, or neglect, but never on a whim, and never without a very good reason. He cannot guarantee any sort of allegiance to a monarch forever, not without the ability to see all the things they might do in the future, but his personal loyalties, once earned, are quite hard to lose. Too hard, some might say; his loyalty to a mare who had once swapped their son for his daughter with another mare and told none of them was testament to that. (Even then, he had been angry beyond words with Neraza but he understood, he loved her, and he forgave her).
The other task she sets is easier, and he smiles broadly at the thought of teaching would-be warriors once more, at the remembrance of the satisfaction of physical exertion and the sweet burn of wounds acquired in battles both friendly and antagonistic. “That I can do,” he promises with a laugh, “As fighting was my first love, and my attachment to it lingers still.”
She looks away from him, but he waits patiently, feeling that she is not done speaking. Something else brews inside her pretty head and fire-bright eyes, and Brennen will patiently wait for it. For a moment while silence reigns he breaths in the salty air, considers the way the wind tangles his hair and teases his feathers, leaving behind remnants of salt and sand instead of the once-familiar ice and snow. But at her next words, when she finally turns curious eyes on him again, Brennen goes very still (perfectly still), the only sign that he still lives for a long minute of heartbeats is the longing in his eyes. (He can tell himself he will grow fond of Nerine, but it is a stopgap, nothing more; the Brotherhood is more than just a vanished piece of land). “I would give much and more for the return of the Brotherhood.” he says finally, voice so cool it would seem to burn like fire.
At this point, he thinks that she reads him quite well, and he speaks no more. Brennen doesn’t think he needs to explain that there are types of loyalties, and that while personal loyalties can be built brick by brick on respect and affection and trust, they can also be bought. Everyone has a price, even ageless stoic ice-warriors, and he thinks that she has found his even in this singular conversation.
hold me in this wild, wild world
and in your heat I feel how cold it can get
and in your heat I feel how cold it can get
BRENNEN