oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone.
He’s never seen his father like this—never seen the way he comes undone in this moment, unravelling before him as fear and fury merge and meld together. It frightens him, reminds him that he is still but a boy trying to learn his way, but it also solidifies something in him. It brings a steely calm that he clings to, a curious stability that serves as a counterweight to his father’s forcible emotions around him.
Brigade doesn’t respond to the way that his father snaps, doesn’t pay any mind to the way that he can feel the pieces of him snapping and coming apart. He just watches with his winter storm eyes, the grey of them shifting and fluid beneath the battering of his father. There is so much he wants to ask. He wants to ask more of who Red is, what she means to his father. He wants to ask what could have happened to make her look like this; what she could have done to bring on the kind of fury that now rends her apart.
Instead, he just nods.
“Okay,” is all he says.
He has no idea where he can find a healer—none live on the volcanic island—but he has heard rumors of some within Loess and although he doesn’t know about he darkness shadowing them, he has to at least try. Looking at his father, nearly wild with his grief and panic, Brigade knows he can’t let him down.
So he says nothing else, he simply turns his head toward the border and begins to run. His youthful, coltish legs fling outward as he pushes himself faster and faster so that when he finally does unfurl his brilliantly white whites, overlarge now, he catapults into the sky, swallowed by the clouds as he flies.
@[Daemron]