it is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves
He does not return to the Gates, not yet. The weight of his encounter with Trystane, and Magnus is still too much for him to bear. He flickers between a firm resolve, and complete disintegration. He refuses to be weak, to be anything but stalwart, and strong. He has pretended for too long to be anything less. He finds his solace in the Forest. In the heavy silence before the waking of dawn he finally sleeps, and dreams collapse into nothingness.
His dreams take him far away, into oblivion, into eternal, endless galaxies. Yet, the earthy smell of Autumn still lingers in the starways. Ever since her name had been muttered from their son’s lips, Fiero has been unable to shake the scent of early autumn honeysuckle blooms. In his dream, she is there, alien, and out of place amidst the glowing planets. She lures him back to earth, to her realm. He forgets the stars, and the nebulas for autumns heavy breath. He follows her through painted trees, all dressed in red, yellow, and orange. When he wakes, she is there.
He blinks, unbelieving, just as he had been unbelieving of Magnus’ return from death. He blinks, expecting her to disappear with the haze of sleep. Yet, there she stands, grazing in the morning sunlight, a sister to the land around her. He watches her for a time. Sunlight dapples her rosy gray hide, and he remembers how beautiful she had been to him those years ago. He remembers the grove of trees she had led him to, and the sweet scent of early autumn blooms (perhaps, she had mentioned them, for he probably wouldn’t have remembered them otherwise).
He would have been content to watch her for the rest of time, for she, unbeknownst to her, steals away his strife. But, he is greedy, eating up every particle of light that bounces from her body. He ventures forward.
He is nothing special, a mixture of bad blood and righteousness. He is conflicted to his very core - born into the fray of his own ancestry. He wouldn’t know the true depth at which the fissures of conflict reach. He washes them away with early memories, of he and his sister resting in the sunlight of the Gates. He drowns them out with the sunlight that bathes Vineine this early morning.
“Hello, Vineine.” He says, smiling, because he has missed her. Their time together had been short, but it had been sweet to him. He clings, hopelessly, helplessly, to those small, bright moments in his life - those things that have lit up the gray lonesomeness. Vineine has been one of those quickly burning flares along the synapses and corridors of his mind. Here he comes to stand within her light.
“I met our son.” he says, and the weight that had burdened him since their reunion is lessened. “You have raised him well.” He only wishes he could have been there.
His dreams take him far away, into oblivion, into eternal, endless galaxies. Yet, the earthy smell of Autumn still lingers in the starways. Ever since her name had been muttered from their son’s lips, Fiero has been unable to shake the scent of early autumn honeysuckle blooms. In his dream, she is there, alien, and out of place amidst the glowing planets. She lures him back to earth, to her realm. He forgets the stars, and the nebulas for autumns heavy breath. He follows her through painted trees, all dressed in red, yellow, and orange. When he wakes, she is there.
He blinks, unbelieving, just as he had been unbelieving of Magnus’ return from death. He blinks, expecting her to disappear with the haze of sleep. Yet, there she stands, grazing in the morning sunlight, a sister to the land around her. He watches her for a time. Sunlight dapples her rosy gray hide, and he remembers how beautiful she had been to him those years ago. He remembers the grove of trees she had led him to, and the sweet scent of early autumn blooms (perhaps, she had mentioned them, for he probably wouldn’t have remembered them otherwise).
He would have been content to watch her for the rest of time, for she, unbeknownst to her, steals away his strife. But, he is greedy, eating up every particle of light that bounces from her body. He ventures forward.
He is nothing special, a mixture of bad blood and righteousness. He is conflicted to his very core - born into the fray of his own ancestry. He wouldn’t know the true depth at which the fissures of conflict reach. He washes them away with early memories, of he and his sister resting in the sunlight of the Gates. He drowns them out with the sunlight that bathes Vineine this early morning.
“Hello, Vineine.” He says, smiling, because he has missed her. Their time together had been short, but it had been sweet to him. He clings, hopelessly, helplessly, to those small, bright moments in his life - those things that have lit up the gray lonesomeness. Vineine has been one of those quickly burning flares along the synapses and corridors of his mind. Here he comes to stand within her light.
“I met our son.” he says, and the weight that had burdened him since their reunion is lessened. “You have raised him well.” He only wishes he could have been there.