"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
in these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die and where you invest your love, you invest your life
Despite the fact that it was summer, and thus one of the mildest seasons in the Tundra, Tobiah was still surprised by the bite in the air. It was different from his birth, wherever that had been, and the few days following—the weather warm and welcoming and utterly perfect. If that is what you viewed as perfect. For Tobiah, it had been mostly empty. He had appreciated the sweet beauty of the land, the softness of it and the quiet, but even after a few days, he had begun to yearn for more. He had begun to dream.
His mother had been the same—soft, sweet, nervous—but his interest had been piqued more of the stories that she had told him of his father. A stallion that she, admittedly, did not know well, but who came from a kingdom where the land was beautiful and cruel and dangerous. He was King, she had told him, of a band of brothers where no mare was allowed to join the ranks. The Tundra. The brotherhood.
Her details had been vague, shallow, and still they had been enough. Enough to cause the young colt, even in his severe youth, to wait for her to sleep before leaving. Enough for him to gather his wits and point his path in the direction of the Tundra. There had been a brief flickering of fear in his heart—enough to cause him to pause, at least—his pale blue-grey eyes resting on the sleeping form of his mother.
But, ultimately, he had known what he needed to do.
For in all of her stories, his mother had also told him of the faeries of Beqanna and the warning that they had given her regarding her newborn son. He would grow up strong, tall, handsome. He was gifted with his father’s invisibility, something he had yet to master, and wings, although the one on the right would forever be smaller and thus weaker, and immortality—the gift of eternal life. That is, until he fell in love.
Tobiah had not understood at first, how such a gift came with such limitations. He did not understand why his right wing curled more at his side and why he felt distinctly off-balance whenever he unfurled them. He certainly did not understand why his own emotional attachment could strip him of his immortality. But what he had known was that when his mother had told him of the Tundra, the place where no mares could roam and where he father reigned as King, he had known that it was his only chance to hold onto his gifts.
So although he paused, and his expression had fallen for a second, he had ultimately stiffened his lip, just nodding at her in his form of goodbye before turning toward the Tundra and what waited for him there. Although there were parts of him that had wanted to curl into her side, let her continue to coddle him, he knew that his only true chance of survival was to shut that part of him off completely.
He was not gifted the luxury of love in his life. It was better to acclimate himself to that fact now.
As he makes his way toward the Tundra, he fortifies the promise he made to himself in his heart. When he reaches the border, he is pleased to know that he does not even miss his mother. Instead, he just lifts his roman nose to the wind and lets loose a call, surprisingly throaty. And then he waits for what is to come.
He is an old man. Ancient, really, for he had surpassed merely old decades ago. But if there is one thing he can say that he has gained in his very long life, it would be knowledge. More specifically, knowledge that living forever is not always everything that it is cracked up to be. Oh, given the choice, he would still choose to live. But even he will admit there is a certain hollowness to a life lived forever. A life lived alone. Perhaps he is not cursed with it, has no actual need to live alone, but he has nonetheless.
He had almost loved once. A brief flame that had kindled in the hardest recesses of his heart. Her sunlight had washed over him, exposing the darkest pieces of his soul to a goodness he had not known existed before that very moment. But she had gone. Left without a word, taking those thawed pieces of his heart with her. He suspects they will always be hers, even if he never lays eyes on her again.
But if he had truly loved her, the young colt now making his way to the icy kingdom he rules would not exist. His mother had been a brief reprieve in the eternity of his loneliness. The only type of reprieve that he suspects he will ever have.
He knows even before the young man calls out that he is here. He knows even without asking that this is his son. He sees the boy’s mother there in his features. She had been soft and sweet, he remembers. A good mother, no doubt. So very unlike his own. Either of them. Despite all the memories he has lost over the years, he will always remember his mothers. Ironically, neither of them had been very motherly at all.
The pale stallion banks sharply, dark eyes fixed on the young man below as he drops from the sky to meet him. The ice wall looms large, a silent, constant sentinel. The frozen sides weep in the warm summer weather, reminding him of just how brief of a reprieve the season offered. Snapping his wings wide, he lands with efficient and practiced ease before the colt.
He doesn’t speak for a moment. His steely gaze is fixed upon the boy, silently assessing. He notes the smaller wing before dismissing it. He had always held the strong opinion that a man is what he makes himself to be, not what he was born with. He has no doubt that would hold true for his son as well.
When he finally does speak, his words are simple, straightforward.
in these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die and where you invest your love, you invest your life
There is something about the barren land that calls to Tobiah; something that feels right. Standing here now, cool wind washing over him, he recognizes it as the feeling of homecoming. Perhaps he would not live here forever—after all, his forever had the potential to be a very long time—but he would always think of his first time standing on the border with fondness. His pale eyes traced the border of the Tundra, taking in the stark, harsh beauty and the relative quiet, and he simply nodded. Yes. This would do.
It was not until the stallion landed in front of him that his gaze jerked away. He had no way of knowing that this was his father—his mother had told him broad descriptions but no physical details—so he does not say anything at first, not immediately answering the demand. It wasn’t that he was petulant (although it could be argued that he was stubborn); it was simply that Tobiah liked to process things in his own time. If he was going to give his name, it would be because he decided that he wanted to, not simply because he was asked to relinquish it. In time, he would learn just how hard headed he could become.
Finally, after several moments have passed, he shrugs. “Tobiah.” The goodness of God, although his mother had not known the meaning behind the name when she had whispered it to him. He did not often feel like his life reflected such ideals—his god gave and took away in equal measures—but he liked his name all the same. It was simple, strong, and rooted in history. “What is your name?” he echoes back. It was only fair that he be given the same courtesy that was demanded of him, even if this was not yet his home.
Perhaps it is a familial trait, stubbornness. He has certainly suffered from more than his fair share of it his entire life. Others had learned, mostly to their dismay, just how tenacious he could be when he took the proverbial bit between his teeth. It is an advantage and a failing. Regardless, it is one he has found strength in, one that has brought him where he is today.
No doubt it is a trait that would stand his son in good stead as well. Or at least one can hope.
He stands before the spotted colt, the Tundra sweeping a wide and icy swath behind him, as much a part of the barren landscape as the scrubby brush and perpetual permafrost. He had arrived in a similar manner when he had been young. What this place would come to be for him and been unknown to him at the time, but upon first setting foot into the frigid land, he had felt a sense of homecoming. Had known from that very moment that this is where he belonged.
And here he has remained. Here he would remain.
The boy is slow in his response, but Hurricane is patient. He waits until he speaks, silently weighing the name in his mind. It is a good name. But then, as far as Hurricane is concerned, names are the least of what makes a man. Certainly, given only his own name, one might have expected a very different sort of stallion. His personality reflects his home far more than it has ever reflected the volatility his given name might suggest.
Then again, perhaps given his general implacability, it is more fitting than one might first have guessed.
He considers Tobiah quietly for a moment, stirring himself to answer only when the boy repeats his own question back to him.
”Hurricane.”
His words are as simple and straightforward as he is. Never having been one to waste time, he continues, getting straight to the point.
