It is terribly easy to reach the Deserts.
It is nearly impossible to leave the Jungle.
More specifically, the young man balks at the idea of leaving Lagertha behind. He knows she is strong - she is the khaleesi of the land, the fearless leader of soldier-women – but surely the departure of one of her offspring will diminish her in some small way. He doesn’t want that, even if he should have left long ago. He doesn’t want to think of her in quiet moments away from the Sisters. Time has been unkind to the iron lady’s rule (how the war had pulled her: past, present, and future), but still she holds on. It is only a testament to her strength that she has kept the Sisterhood largely untouched by the cold hands of the Reaper. Being the only child present to witness the war and his mother’s involvement, Vidar knows all too well its toll on her. He wishes the others had been there. The realization that he had been the last to leave the nest had been quick and stabbing. Neither Dalten nor Anguisette had left on good terms, besides, and the weight of these truths presses further into him.
But there is so much out there.
Vidar isn’t meant to remain sheltered behind the banana fronds forever. He is meant for the push and pull of his muscle against soil of foreign lands. He is made to represent his mother’s kingdom, to be a drain on thoughts of war and violence with the Jungle, to keep the peace. In many ways, he is glad to come out from the last fern covering the border. It trails against his blue-grey skin and elicits the smallest of smiles to flicker on his lips. The final, voluntary shackle falls away and he emerges into a brand new freedom beyond.
The azure sky is open and overwhelming to the child of shadows and leaves. He is at first mesmerized by the play of light on the land. The sunlight dips into every north-facing crevice, pooling in space between the hills that grow with every step he takes away from his homeland. It is beautiful in an honest kind of way; there are no sneaking vines hidden in the dark, waiting to trip one up. Here, everything is wide and his vision is reaching. So different, he marvels, appreciating it all the same. So much more like me. Because he is not made of deceit and trickery. He is as candid and unassuming as the land he finds himself in.
The heat, however, remains a constant. It hits him anew when he toes the edge of the Deserts. New, because this warmth has no breath to it. The heat of the sand kingdom is dry and without a hint of the Amazon’s infamous humidity. But the sun is still there, beating against the gentle slope of his back. Vidar welcomes it, relishes this one hint of home. His eyes, the color of a storm gathering above rainforest canopies, search for signs of life. There aren’t many to be found. A quiet kingdom, his mother had said, and he sees now that she had been well-informed. Quiet, perhaps, but surely not dead. The stallion considers moving further into his potential new home but wavers on the border. He remembers, suddenly and forcefully, everything he is representing. It would not do to cast a pall on his arrival, even as anxious as he is to search the Deserts to find his place in their world.
Vidar