He is too damn old to be making this trip again.
He is alone this time, at least, so no one can hear his frequent protestations. And there are plenty: from summer’s heat that grows the closer he gets to the kingdom, to the multitude of bugs and critters that swarm him, and even a raven that gets a little too close to his head. A slew of curses find their way past his cracked, grey lips at this last insult. He remembers all too well how prominent the ravens were in his oh-so-recent home. The Chamber was practically inundated with the beady-eyed pests – it took all his willpower not to be driven mad with their constant chatter and caws. He especially remembers how they had seemed to take a liking to some of the Chamber denizens. Even now, he can see the exact posture of Gryffen’s personal pet, how it had looked at him like it was accessing parts of his mind he couldn’t even reach himself…
The beady eyes had been the worst, he thinks now. Inscrutable, piercing-eyed bastards.
After nearly a week, the bay roan reaches the Jungle. The full force of heat hits him, washing over him like an old blanket he wants to throw out but keeps pulling over him for security on the darkest nights. In truth, security is the reason he is here now. The Chamber had stolen him fair and square, but what had happened next had been a dangerous affair. Or could have been, if perhaps Straia hadn’t appeared. Crito is almost certain Shaytan and Gryffen would have flayed him open then and there if their raven-queen hadn’t put a stop to it. Even if she claimed there was never any ill-intentions towards him, his sense told him otherwise. His senses, and the blood staining the lips of the crazed, spotted woman. The Chamber’s influence felt almost tangible these days. And after losing Errant to god knows what, he needs to find his only other relative he cares anything about.
He calls for Scorch on the border of the kingdom.
He has no idea that his twin will not come. As his silver-grey eyes search the banana leafs for her familiar, naked face, he doesn’t know that she is already gone from this world. Somewhere in those tangled vines and shades of green is his daughter, too. He thinks he’ll ask Scorch to let him in to see her, if she wants to meet him. Time is growing short for him, even he realizes. The lines on his face are more like furrows in dried soil, the edges of his features creased many times over. His back, once short and sturdy (much like the rest of him) is now hollowed and constantly stiff. But his spirit is as unwavering and cantankerous as the day he emerged from the iced mountains all those years ago, vowing to step up in ways he hadn’t in his youth. In ways he should have, a long time before. So he grins a toothy, rusty grin as he waits. She’ll burst from the treeline any moment, his fiery, fearsome sister. And he’ll await her colliding body as he always has, barely able to absorb the full force she is.
C R I T O
king's hand of the tundra