"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
That night, I had slept. It felt blissful and at all, a dream. Had my sleep-deprived brain concocted the whole foray? I was sure it had been a ruse, my own mind playing shameless tricks. But indeed, it had happened, as I had awoke and the earthen beast was by my side. I felt comfortably numb, a fire licking over my skin. Now, now I walked through the chamber with a positively new glow. Even beneath the dirt and the grime of the chamber's ash and dirt, I was aglow. My hormones were all over the place, peaking and dropping. I was finding myself far more tired than usual, and even that was something. I was capturing a few dozes in the day, underneath the copse of trees; their boughs as protective as any. I often lay my nose against my barrel, even if it were just a dream, I could feel something shift within, life, life born from a night of sorrow turned bliss. He had held me when I needed it, and had taken my mask from my face, kept his eyes on me, even when mine leaked tears. Killdare was something else, and still, the butterflies quivered inside of me at the very thought of spring. Shards of doubt had begun to penetrate me, momentarily soon changed to want, desire and a sense of pride. There would be a new addition to grace the chamber's scarred earth, and one that would be as promising as the growing sapling in the treeline.
My nightly wanderings (I was still finding it a feat to sleep when the sun went down. I truly was nocturnal in my habits now.) brought me across the clearing; Where normally I stalk the shadows with ever observant eyes, I now wandered the clearing, the hard ground knocking a crescendo into the silent night. My tired eyes looked out, as a guardian, as a protector but as something else. I was protecting the home, my home, my kingdom and my companions. But now, now I was protecting something equally as precious to me, as the sapling is to the chamber. A new life.
She knew everything that went on in her kingdom even before the raven’s started informing her. Now she just knows it faster. And tonight, she is awake when the ravens tell her the news. Such good little spies they are, and though perhaps Straia should feel guilty for knowing so many very private things, she doesn’t. She simply plans to be discrete about exactly what she knows. Somewhat, anyway.
Straia slips out of the copse of trees, less ash and more life now than in so long. The Chamber is growing, flourishing – both the trees and the members. How long had it been since the kingdom hummed with life like this? They could still be better (they could always be better), but she’s endlessly proud of what they have become as well. Proud as well that every one of them strives to be better yet.
She spots the golden mare easily enough. Straia, unlike Engelsfors, does sleep. But not all the time. There’s are certain benefits to being awake, and so she often roams at night, catching sleep here and there when she finds the time for it. Being Queen leaves little time for much else, and though she doesn’t mind, she does enjoy her sleep now and again. But tonight, she feels like being nosey.
Straia lets out a quiet nicker, not wanting to startle the other. Yes, sometimes she is actually polite. She does know how. It’s just a matter of her mood, and who she’s talking to. “Engelsfors,” she says, her voice as warm as her smoky, cool voice can ever be. “How are you? You seem to be settling in here well.”
When one does not sleep, their nerves become edgy. One snap of a twig alerts already tuned ears, one rustle in the bushes and eyes draw up and penetrate the dark. I try and tell myself this, every night. When the dawn breaks and the tiredness bruises my hollowed eyes, I tell myself it is for the Chamber, I tell myself I guard the borders, I protect it at the cost of sleep. But then in the height of the sun at noon, I feel the pressure of sleep burden me, and I still refrain from falling beneath the spell of the sandman.
I see her, more certainly the raven feathers that merge with the darkness. Rather fitting for the Queen. the Queen of shadows, the queen of ravens. A smirk taints my dry lips, and my salmon tongue coats them momentarily. Sapphire eyes drawing up to meet her. 'Good Evening, Straia.' As long as I have wandered the borders at night, I have heard her raven's call, had heard the bristle of the undergrowth, but not seen her as much. she is a lady nonetheless and ladies have their secrets. I pry not, as my place is as solid as the ground beneath my foot, and I dare to try to overstep it. 'The Chamber is far more than I had predicted. You have my gratitude, Straia. It has become quite the home.' The ash, though fading, still licked my coat, still tainted my hooves. the dirt of the forest lay against my warm bodice at night and cooled me. It was far more homely than I had ever had. And that was evident in the way my eyes almost lovingly gazed at the sentinel pines.
'I am well. Positively glowing in fact.' there is an undertone of mystery laced in black magic. There are things hushed, spoken in whispers amongst the trees. I dare not repeat them, and instead simply smile, Straia was a force and one that knew things, and found things. And when she did not, her ravens would. 'The ravens, they are quite becoming. The crown sits rather well on you, if I must say.' I say, idling for a moment. Golden plume brushing my hocks, thoughts swim, and I carefully pluck them like leaves from the pond. 'The Chamber is flourishing, that is pleasing, no?' As if that question needed an answer. My eyes turned to the clearing, to the deeper portion of the woods. there were more here now, even more than when I graced their borders. And I truly believed there would be more on the way. The Chamber was regrowing and with it, a blossoming power.
Straia has never been edgy, particularly not within the confines of the Chamber. But she trusts her kingdom in a strange way. She trusts that should something happen to her inside these borders, it is because the kingdom wants it to happen. She trusts that this land will take care of her like a god might do. Not that it will protect her, but that every trial and tribulation that comes her way will be at the will of her home. She trusts that one day, she will lay down her life for this kingdom. Not because she necessarily must die (she has discovered that she can suck the life from her ravens and life forever), but because one day, the kingdom will need her to return to the land she came from.
So the snap of a twig has never bothered her. To her, it is a warning that something is coming, but nothing more. Perhaps a friend, perhaps an enemy, but Straia has always been content with her life. Content in her service. She doesn’t fear what that might mean, though perhaps she should. Because she knows what it might mean. It means giving your heart and soul, both literally and figuratively. This land lives with the pieces of past members. Like Frankstein’s monster, only endlessly more beautiful.
Engelsfors greets her easily, politely, thanking her. Straia rolls her shoulder in a shrug. “It is only what you make of it. The gratitude is mine.” The mare had quickly proven her worth, alongside Killdare, and Straia was glad both of them had decided to call this kingdom home. They did well, and would continue to do well.
Straia, unlike Engelsfors, can only keep herself from prying for so long. Besides, Engelsfors hints at it, and it’s like begging Straia just to ask the question. The Queen has little in the way of manners. Well, that’s not entirely true. She is fully aware of them, fully capable of using them even. She simply doesn’t, unless she feels so inclinded. “You are glowing…” Straia says with a grin, flicking her tail. It is the one habit of her mischievous childhood that has remained. That flick of her black and white tail.
Engelsfors mentions the crown, though this interests her little. However, as she speaks, she begins weaving raven feathers into the other mare’s white mane. Of course, she doesn’t have the deceny to ask Engelsfors if she minds this little addition. Straia simply assumes that her kingdom mates need only ask, and she will remove whatever she has done. But the stark black raven feathers look rather beautiful on the pristine mare, a stark contrast to the gold and white. “It is flourishing, And it seems with a new generation as well. Erebor, though he’s grown. Sayaa. And one of yours, perhaps? And Killdare’s?” Though she already knows. Of course she does.
It is undeniable the activity within the chamber of recent moons; the tracks are beaten nicely, rounding with footfalls of travellers and residents alike. I cannot begin to fathom what the chamber was like in days of old, but like many kingdoms, many herds. Faces came, bodies went. Hearts were stolen and souls taken by the lands. The Chamber, it was something else. Far from the herd my father had led, far from the bachelor politics. There was a regime here, and if one kept their heads down, their noses clean and worked hard, there would be something made of them. And I was hopeful of that. That Engelsfors would not just be some name held in vain, that the fallen angel could ascend to something more than just what my mother had been. A brood who had popped children out like they were sprinkling flower seeds. Sprinkle them sparsely, you never know what might grow.
I listen to the painted queen, and like some teenagers who idly gossip and braid hair, fawning over latest crazes, we stand. I remain a still statue, gilt and glimmering in the paling moonlight, as Straia knits feathers into my pale tresses. The smile that shifts upon my lips does not fade. There is a sense of belonging here, a sense of purpose. And I am glad that I had followed the painted mare that night in the field. The thought only yields to what I would be doing right now if I hadn't.
'They say the children are the future, no?' I laugh, the dark, sultry thing, breaks the still silence of midnight. Wisps of frostbitten air clouding my lips as I turn my head to observe the chamber's clearing. Perhaps a bit bashful with Straia's notice. Of course, one can only hide such a blossoming condition for so long. 'Those ravens. They never miss a thing, do they?' my lilting voice fades, as does my smile, to a serious notion, my crystal blue eyes finding Straia. 'What was it like, with Erebor? He was far wiser than the years gave him, was he not? I often wonder, what it will be like. He, she. I wonder many things, think of what will be of the child, what path will they take, what they will turn out like. But we all surprised our mothers now didn't we? Nothing is ever paved in stone.' There is a wistful glaze to my eye, as I turn to observe the darkness above, a thoughtful moment to reflect on the change, not only of my body but my mind. When one does not sleep, they think. And when one is quite obvious with child, hormones test you. It is those hormones I blame the philosophical ramblings, the relfective words. Oh yes, I am far from where my mother wanted me. If she had it her way, I would have had numerous children by now, been worn to the ground like she. Idling in some herd like some beautiful object, shiny and glamorous on the outside but as broken as shards of glass on the inside. Oh, we are never what are mothers intended, are we?
E n g e l s f o r s drink thy posion lightly dear. there are deeper and darker things than you minister of the chamber
Straia will never know what her mother intended for her. She only knows what her mother looked like from her own reflection in the river. Her father used to tell her she looked like her mother, and she remembers her mother saying it once as well. But she doesn’t remember the sound of her mother’s voice, or the way the words had rolled off her tongue. She remembers love and kind words and bedtime stories, but not what those stories were or what that kind of love had felt like. Frostweaver perhaps wasn’t the best mother, often lost in her own grief, but she had been good mother. Plenty enough for Straia.
And then her sisters found her mother’s murdered body on the beach. Straia remembers Nocturnal and Araby. Remembers how they stormed into the Chamber with fire in their eyes, sure Rodrik had something to do with it. Sure at least that he should have been protecting Frostweaver. She remembers, very clearly, Nocturnal breaking the news. She remembers, very clearly, how undisturbed her father had seemed. She hadn’t understood then. But now, now she thinks she does.
Perhaps she can’t kill her own father, but taking his throne was a start. The parent she surprised wasn’t her mother. It was her father. She can only hope her mother would be proud of what she’s become, but she’ll never know. She’ll never know what her mother wanted her to be.
Engelsfors takes Straia’s prying into stride, which the painted queen appreciates. “Yes, they do say that. The future is going to be all work and no play if it’s up to my son.” She chuckles. Her son is like her in many ways, but not in that. Straia is cheeky and impossible sometimes, whereas her son simply works and works and works away. He does flirt, but only when that too might benefit the Chamber. The ravens crow above them as Engelsfors mentions how they miss nothing, and Straia just grins, one side of her lips turned up just slightly. No, they really do not. And she doesn’t need to say so, because they’ve just spoken for themselves.
“Erebor was likely the easiest child to raise ever born. I consider myself lucky.” She’d fed him, made sure he didn’t get mauled by a wolf, but otherwise the boy had done as he pleased and thrown himself into the good of the Chamber and that had been that. She’s not entirely sure she’ll ever have another one. Certainly, a second child would actually require her to raise it. Erebor popped out of the womb fully formed, like he’d just absorbed all her thoughts and needed no more instruction. “Whatever the path, he or she will be your child. And you will love them anyway.” Unless you are Rodrik and Straia. But most parents, surprised or no, still loved their children. This child would have two loving parents and a safe home. It wouldn’t be as broken as her family.
