like the dawn, you broke the dark - magnus/any

[Rhaegor]

Rhaegor

the playboy

Some might call it destiny, designed by fate, or some other phrase which means meant to be, but the truth of the matter is that this fate of his is apparent, even to him. He smiles to think on it, as twisted and incomprehensible it may be to an outsider; but to him, and to Will, it all makes sense. Although moving to Tephra had been initially out of spite, the once-prince has come to realize that he came in search of that which so called his mother to this place during the few months following her birth. Tephra is in his blood, as much as Hyaline is in Will's; for just as Rhaegor mimics and follows Solace's legacy, his sister Warlight follows Kagerus'. Two perfect extensions of their mothers, the triplets often murmur in the night about all this trivialities, about all these destinies and twists of fate; but again, the truth of the matter is that they are not their parents, but themselves, utterly.

This, however, changes not the skipped beat of Rhaegor's heart when he hears the sound of his mother's voice carried to him from the eastern border. Solace's brook-like tones send a grin to the feeble stallion's bloody lips, a reminder of times when he had been but a healthy babe racing up and down the mountain slopes of Hyaline. He longs desperately to return to such simplicity when he thinks of his current plague-ridden state, but he simultaneously knows that he is meant to be exactly here for a reason.

Wasting not a breath, Rhaegor sucks in a deep lungful of air before bursting into an uneven canter. For what once may have been the elegant gate of a well bred part-Arabian, the man looks now a disheveled mess; but still, he retains a roguish glint in the ash-brown of his eyes, and there is no denying the charm with which the corners of his lips turn upward.

Of course, that self same expression dies instantly as he rounds a corner and glimpses the group standing there upon his border. And no, it is not the tentacle-ridden monstrosity that so cools him, but the absolutely plain and absolutely heart-broken girl standing next to his mother. Dawn.

The person I love most standing next to the person I want least to see, standing next to my king, standing next to a God damned sea monster. How fucking poetic.

Fighting the urge to just straight up turn a hundred and eighty degrees and leave (a fight which he barely wins, believe me), the young Beta stifles his moodiness with a tuck of his chiseled jaw to his chest and a slow final approach. He sees Magnus' lips moving in his customary greeting, short and to the point; and to Rhaegor's misfortune, he is within earshot in time to catch his one best-friend's utterance of her name. Dawn. Rhae's withers flinch visibly at the pronunciation, but the movement of his rolling muscles - as emaciated as they are - do a good enough job of hiding his discomfort; never to mind the breadth of his bedraggled wings.

Slipping into the group of Eastern-hailing women, Rhae momentarily makes eye contact with Magnus before privately greeting his mother. Were the betentacled witch not with the Sanctuarians, he might have spoken at large; but instead, he is forced to only press himself ever-so-lovingly to Solace, a sincere, heartfelt apology writ clear in the crease of his brow. An apology for never returning; an apology for abandoning her; and a request for forgiveness that his eyes show he doubts will be granted. I love you so much, he mouths into the golden fur of her neck; a time-old form of communication between the mother and son, for when he could not speak but needed to communicate things of importance to her.

Stepping back, Rhaegor avoid's Dawn's eye contact, and resigns himself to being but a shadow in the rest of this conversation.

...my name on your tongue and your tongue on my...

@[Solace] @[Dawn] @[magnus] @[Yidhra]