"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
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.
If and/or when Lagertha decides that she has lived long enough, she imagines that in the fading years of her life, she will probably be like Crito. Slightly grumpy, but devoted, perhaps serving as advisor to whomever is Khaleesi. The only difference is that her joints will thank her for the heat and humidity, while Crito’s must protest with every step he takes. A long journey such as the one from the Turndra to the Jungle must be… tiring, to say the least, and when she hears him call for Scorch, she is a little confused. Why…? Surely word had gotten around after their visit to the Brothers that there was a change.
No? Apparently Hurricane should brush up on his communication skills.
It is not a fiery, naked rat that bursts from the treeline, but a stately and stoic, horned gray mare that wears a sign of subtle amusement on her face. Not because she enjoys delivering the news of Scorch’s death (she already had to do that to Ea, and that was incredibly unpleasant), but because he would surely be surprised. He called for the Khaleesi. Here she is. Sporting some new accoutrements, but still the same warrior he met several years ago in the Meadow.
“Crito,” she says without a grumble in her voice, “what a nice surprise.” Lagertha takes a few steps beyond the border and then waits for him to meet her half way. “How have you been?”
Ha, isn’t that question of the year for him? She doesn't know he was captured, of course. To her, it's just small talk.
He has always been a bit player on the grand stage of life.
He has always lingered in the shadows: his mother, his sister, his brother. Crito is happiest there, truth be told. He doesn’t seethe or burn like charcoal; he doesn’t reach for the northern lights. He’s more like one pillar among many, ready to support and share the burden of the building above.
Unlike him, Scorch had never been a support.
The naked rat was ambitious and driven since the day they exited the womb one after the other. Often, in their youth, Crito aspired to be more like her. Echion might have spared him more than a second glance if he had followed through on that wish, but he hadn’t. He high-tailed it out of the Amazons as soon as he felt he was ready, and only now, decades later, does he realize how much of a place in his heart it has. The palm trees sway gently in the humid breeze, their fronds bumping each other and whooshing softly. Howler monkeys hoot in the distance, their cries a nostalgic backdrop he has missed. It’s utterly tranquil, standing at the border, and he almost wishes the figure approaching him had held off a bit longer – especially if it is indeed his sister.
Crito squares his feet, preparing for her to lurch through the cluster of trees at him. He still wears that crooked, toothy grin, knowing that it won’t be an easy greeting but one he’s ready for all the same. But it’s not pink, hairless skin that emerges into the sunlight from underneath the dark canopy – it’s the gunmetal grey of a familiar face. “Lagertha! Long time no see.” His smile warms considerably as his body relaxes. It has been quite a while since their last rendezvous in the meadow, but he’s always felt a natural ease around her. Their’s is a strange, unorthodox friendship, but one that exists despite their great differences.
The diplomat closes the distance she leaves between them, one ear fixed on her while the other swivels to catch the sounds of the rainforest around them (after all, this will likely be his last chance to take it in – he doesn’t expect he’ll make another journey this far from home). He looks past her, waiting for his sister to barrel down the narrow trail at any moment, put off by the fact that she’d been beat by Lagertha. But his attention is caught by some newfangled appendages taking over the warrior’s head. He eyes them with some amount of trepidation before his grey gaze falls to meet her own. Clearly, she’s had some sort of success (though he’s not sure the added weight and discomfort is any kind of prize – more like a punishment, in his admittedly old-school opinion).
“Pretty god-awful, to be honest.” Crito snorts. Yep, she’d found just the question to hit him hardest. The smile doesn’t leave his face, but it’s tough to keep it going. She’s lucky she’s one of the few people he spares an effort for. “I took a year-long sabbatical in the Chamber. They don’t fully inform you about their bird problem when they’re trying to sell it, let me tell you.” He shudders when he remembers the damned ravens that seemed to be everywhere all at once. But he’s not here to talk about his problems (for once in his life). Not to Lagertha, anyway. He’ll spare her his grief unless she’s so inclined to hear it. “You’re the bright end in a tunnel I’ve been stuck in for longer than I cared to be.” Crito bumps her neck with his muzzle lightly, withdrawing almost as soon as he’s made contact. Affection doesn’t really come easy to his family, but he is glad to see her, so he does the best with what he has to work with. “Speaking of doom and gloom, where’s that hairless rat sister of mine?”
Lagertha is more like Scorch than she cares to admit, but it would be a cold day in hell before she ever says anything that could possibly be construed as admitting that fact. The main difference is probably that she thinks rank and titles and power should be earned - not bargained for or freely given because of the circumstances of one’s birth. You will never see her setting Sette or future children up to wear the crowns on their heads unless she thought they were the best one to do the job. Alliances may be bought with children and wombs, but she will make no promises of thrones.
No one appears after her, and unless it’s her gold and white Erinak, or her blue roan daughter, she doesn’t expect anyone else to.
He doesn’t reveal much about his time as a captive, but she imagines it would take a hell of a lot to truly ruffle the perpetually frozen man. That’s what the Tundra does to most, she assumes; it removes the heat of emotion and sets a blanket of unseen ice to chip away before one can even begin to know its members. Their king before Errant must have been an anomaly. She chuckles a little at his description, but it is not in malice - the birds that are in the Jungle are more solitary creatures - a flock of toucans would probably be obnoxious indeed. “I’ve run into a few Chamberlings myself. Spending a year amongst them would probably drive me to murder. You poor, poor man.” The last part has a teasing edge. He probably handled himself well enough. Even with his sabbatical, she is surprised he isn’t up on the latest developments.
Fuck. Crito is someone she genuinely cares about, and she knows she sees callous when delivering bad news. She exhales forcefully, dropping any pretense of amusement from her face and again approaches with the rip-it-all-off-at-once approach: “I’m sorry, Crito, I hate to be the one to tell you… but Scorch died… about a year or so ago.” She looks down for a moment, avoiding eye contact, and then back at the roan stallion before taking a step forward. “I’m the new Khaleesi.”
She cannot help the bit of pride that creeps into her words, and hopes that it is not too upsetting to her friend.
The ice coating Lagertha thinks all Tundra members wear was already firmly protecting Crito long before he stepped foot into the kingdom. He gained his in utero. If not there, then certainly not long after. Most assuredly, it was in place by the end of his mother’s first sentence towards him; her own icy breath left her son forever shielded, forever anticipating the need for defense. She wasn’t a terrible mother - she never took up arms against him, never raised her voice or leg to strike him – she just wasn’t a mother at all. Years later, once he learned that he had been a changeling child at Echion’s doing and that he truly belonged to Katriel and the Desert dunes, he understood why. The truth never melted his rigid exterior, however. He hadn’t forgiven the Khaleesi like Scorch, hadn’t lived his life always seeking the favor of a woman who didn’t really want him at all.
The Tundra had simply been a natural progression for a hard child who became a hard man.
Now, coming back all these decades later, he is still glad he hadn’t stayed.
He is happy to see Lagertha, at least. The sight of the similarly chiseled mare softens his face. He looks like the man he might have otherwise been, had circumstances been different in his formative years: he’s more grey than bay these days, his shoulders take a dangerous dip before meeting his back, but his grey eyes are light like summer clouds after a rain. She laughs at his comment about the ravens, making his gaze even brighter and smile wider. Surely it isn’t easy to make the iron woman laugh. He finds he doesn’t even mind that it is at his expense. “I appreciate your sympathy, however fabricated it may be.” Crito laughs, a brief but deep sound rumbling in his chest. He’s not sure Lagertha is capable of sympathy, truth be told.
But in only a few moments, something shifts on her face. He sees the change and cuts off his laugh, his stony expression creeping back every second. His sister. There’s only one reason the fiery mare’s name could turn Lagertha into steel so quickly. “Dead,” he says absently, looking away into the trees. A howler monkey skillfully pulls itself up one of the trunks, putting one hand over the other in rapid succession until it finds a final branch to rest on. Crito watches it pick for bugs on its fur for a while, too lost in his grief and not trusting his voice to respond just yet. Why hadn’t he visited more often? When had they lost their connection, their unspoken promise to be there for each other always? They’d been comrades from the womb, twins united against the granite-warmth of their false-dam. Did she blame him for leaving the Jungle?
He’d never know any of these things. And as much as it pains him to admit it, perhaps he didn’t want to know the answers. When Crito looks back at the Amazon sister – Khaleesi – he reins in his overwhelming emotions. It’s clear that Lagertha has moved on, so it’s easier for him to do so as well (at least for now). Her strength gives him some of his own, though he’s not sure where it comes from. “Naturally,” he says simply at first, the corner of one lip quirking in a small grin. “You’re the best for the job. After my sister, that is.” Damn her for not waiting for him. “Are you still as ambitious as ever? You always had a raincloud of schemes hanging over your head, and I always admired it.”
It would be easy to call Lagertha cold and unfeeling, to go so far as to say that she is happy Scorch is dead, leaving way to the throne practically free of contenders. It would be easy to say that the Warrior Queen could care less about Scorch’s descendants (as many new rulers might be - who cares, when it is not their offspring?). They are at best, half-truths, when she is seen by those who do not know her. Or when she has to deliver the news - for a third time - to Scorch’s numerous relatives. It gets tiresome, as yes, she and most of the Sisters have moved on. Time does that; time and responsibility and other worries. She lets the silence sit easily between them, as she averts her gaze to give him some privacy whilst in public. Her thoughts drift to the Tundra, and she is momentarily regretful that she could not offer them anything. But it is for the good of the Sisterhood to break their ties with the Brotherhood.
Like everything, power is cyclical. The Tundra’s time is waning. The Jungle’s time is waxing. Every now and then she looks back at they graying stallion, and when they lock eyes, he seems ready to continue their conversation and Lagertha gives him her full attention again.
She won’t debate his statement, in light of the circumstances. It isn’t true, but she’ll bite her tongue out of respect for Crito. Honestly, she’d like to see the hairless rat make connections and navigate these muddy waters like she is. It takes a far cooler head to deal with the other monarchs, who seem to be of a similar logical vein and respect that quality. But she cannot hold back everything, rolling her eyes and hmph-ing in the back of her throat. “Of course I am still ambitious. I may not have a horde of children to put on thrones, but I will have the Amazons back on top."
A teasing grim wraps it way back across her face. “And what about you, old man? If you’re looking for a warmer place to retire, our doors are always open.” They are because she says they are. And she’s sure he knows she wouldn’t say that to just anyone. There are two - maybe three - that deserve such an invitation.
He’d been provoking her, of course. It is his shtick; it is a common exchange between the two of them that keeps him coming back for more. He will forever be the inciting barb, trying, (mostly in vain) to get under her thickened hide. His grin grows in earnest when she snorts at his claim that Scorch is the better fit for Khaleesi. To her credit, it’s all the argument she makes. Crito had been expecting a thorough tongue lashing or even a firm strike, but he understands why she holds back. But he doesn’t want to think on it right now, not when he’s closer – physically and mentally – than he’s ever been to the grey warrior.
He knows it couldn’t have been easy for Lagertha to deliver the news. She’s certainly not the warm and fuzzy type. Nor is he, for that matter, but she is ever the consummate Amazon. If anyone was fit for the job as its lead, it is her. He wonders how it will affect the rest of Beqanna as a whole, wonders at the difference between its former queen and its current. They have always been one of the strongest kingdoms and he thinks they will only continue to grow stronger under Lagertha’s iron rule. Unlike his own home, he thinks, the thought as bitter and biting as Tundra air. And for the first time, Crito thinks there might have been some power to the Blood Alliance. With Errant and Scorch gone, that same blood is slowly draining from the lands. Only time will tell if it is a curse or a boon. He doesn’t imagine he’ll have enough time to see the outcome for himself, though.
The steel lady is unsurprisingly adamant that the Jungle will, in fact, benefit. Not from countless children (which he admits was a strange addendum to Scorch’s ruling scheme) but from hard work and ambition. He can’t laugh, because he knows it comes at his sister’s expense, (even he is sensible enough to hold back in this instance) but he wants to. Instead, the bay roan smiles lightly, wrangling in the extra mirth that lingers on his lips. “I’ve no doubt you’ll see that day soon.”
The Jungle pulses behind its’ Khaleesi. The sounds and smells grow and fade with each beat of his heart. The place is more amorphous than any other, certainly, and it often feels like it has a life all its own. He misses the chaos sometimes. The Tundra is the polar opposite: imposing, expansive, desolate. Sometimes he feels like he’s the only living part of it; sometimes he feels squeezed by it, like he doesn’t belong for all the warmth in his limbs and movement of his blood. But these times are few and far between, really. Crito’s come to relish the snow against his ankles and revel in the nightly dancing of the northern lights. It is home. So when Lagertha offers him a retirement here, in the humid embrace of his homeland, he doesn’t entertain the thought. His sunset is fast approaching; he can feel it in the weariness of his bones – Crito will not leave the Tundra after this. His beloved snow will soon bury him.
“Careful Lagertha,” his storm-eyes swirl with mischief as he looks at her. “You sound more like a lady than a Khaleesi with that offer. Don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression.” The older man moves closer, finally feeling warmth from something other than the forest beyond. This close, he’s even more impressed by her. Warrior muscles stretch just under her iron coat, proving capabilities he’s never seen but believes - but that’s not what draws him in. He’s more impressed that she’s let him come so near. He softens, all traces of his comedic pretense gone from his face. She smells pungent and earthy, dark and sharp. Crito thinks if he can’t have the jungle, maybe he can at least have her. For now, for once, but not forever. He’s not fool enough to believe that. “I’ll miss this,” he says, and it’s not clear if he means the Jungle or her or something else entirely. That same howler monkey cries in the distance and the forest falls silent for just a moment. He waits in that space, afraid to fill it or to leave it.
Lagetha does her best not to boast, to simply state the facts; she cannot help if the facts themsevles are impressive. And if it is impressive that Crito is looking for - try this on for size. Her prowess is no joke, at the tender age of five, she beat the Tundra’s ageless general in a traitless battle, and she’s been on the upswing ever since. Every warrior has their weak points, and Lagertha is no exception - they just might be tougher to find when the iron lady coats herself in an actual layer of iron. Her weakness is Anguisette, and Rhy, and the very few that she holds in high esteem or close to her heart. Crito is one of those few, whether she likes to admit it or not. Her love for Crito is not Eros, the lustful, romantic type of love; it is, instead, a cross between Agape and Philia, a love between equal and genuine friendship.
He smells like… himself, crisp and clean and oddly void of anything other than his own sweat. That is the smell of snow and ice, she thinks. Anyone could tell she is from the Jungle by the seeds and thorns she carries in her mane and on her coat. He has nothing but shag. And yet, they are more alike than she and Scorch were, for all that an oath called them Sisters. The coolness of his ice-land runs rationally through her veins, instead of the hot-headed impulsiveness of their previous Khaleesi.
She stays still, living in the silence of his confession. It requires a response, but for once, it takes her a moment to form the appropriate one. It isn’t a matter of making up her mind, it’s a matter of… making sure all is understood. When she does arrive at the answer, she starts with a murmured quip, “I’ve heard emotions make me more relatable, but that tends to cut into the big, bad, Warrior Queen image. Look, don’t take this the wrong way, Crito, because I actually admire you and enjoy our friendship. But if you have to go and die too, leave a piece behind to keep me company.” Ahh… there it is, the Iron Lady has a molten core after all. She shifts her weight to lean into the graying stallion, giving a physical assent to the verbal. There can be no mistaking that.
