"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
To say Eight was a shadow would be a stretch. He was hardly of this world – he was a god, overseeing the Valley from the vast skies above. He had no need to attend to the frivolous world below him – he had done his time, made his moves, spent moments roiling the sea. Now, he was merely content to guard – to keep his lady, the Valley, under a keen eye.
However, he knew that there were moments in life where he should come out from his invisible barrier and interact with the world. The birth of his son, perhaps, was one. Well, birth – maybe not. Eight was never the kind of soul who was smitten when children were around. It was true, there were times in his life where he had interacted with the young, doe eyed children of Beqanna. However, it was merely a formality that led the way for him to toy and play with them as he please.
So, no, the birth of Underwood was not something he cared to be around for. He watched, of course he did – as Topsail had pushed and brayed and birthed Eight’s latest prodigy. But he did not care to nuzzle the child’s neck and be introduced as a father. Eight was not much for being a father anyhow. And yes, the years passed and he had watched the child grow, watched Topsail reign, and watched the Valley keenly from above. There was nothing that had passed without Eight’s knowledge. Such is magic, I suppose.
But now, maybe now it was time to meet this Underwood – although Eight knew of his appearance and actions and personality from watching silently – he knew that there were too many fatherless children in Beqanna – and as much as he was lackadaisical at best in his parenting, he would not want Underwood to be blighted like this.
He appeared deep in the woods, the trees around him sprouting new leaves and the forest singing praises of new life. Springtime in the Valley was always alarming – She never seemed to belong here, in this land of dark and dreary.
Eight was never really a polite individual, so it’s no surprise that his homecoming was equally as rude. Stopping in a clearly, he briefly closed his eyes and conjured the image of Topsail and Underwood in his head. With a small tug, he pulled at their atoms – their blood and bone and being. All they had to do was feel the pull of his magic and let go – and they would be transported to him.
Or, I mean, they could refuse and they’d find one another the old fashioned way.
Perhaps he had not fallen too far from the proverbial tree - preferring the solace and quiet of the darkest depths the dense foliage surrounding their territory had to offer, he often hid away, tucked into the shadow-laced crevices. When temptation does grow to be too much to bear and he exposes his sooty coat and thick, bristling feathers of coal to the prying sunlight, it is only to venture out and taste the discomfort and uneasiness in the air. Though he has grown into a broad, statuesque blend of his flawless bloodline, there is still a touch of pristine youth to his features - but his soulless, dark eyes cause many to flinch and pull away from him, which he savors.
The only one yet to draw away from his callous stare is his precious mother - his beautiful, manipulative mother - in fact, she pulls him closer, adoring him for every furrowed brow and every sinful stare. His mind lingers on her for too long, interrupted only by the way his eyes clench and grimace from the blinding light of the sun as he emerges from the darkness. There is something that pulls at him, setting his nerves on fire and his wry smile twists into a glowering sneer - he knows not what it is, but it pulls at the very fiber of his being. He resists for a long moment, but it crawls along his flesh, and he is suddenly too aware of his own skin and the way it moves and shifts over his muscles and bone.
At last, he relinquishes control, uneasy but intrigued - the world falls from beneath him and his tendons tense from the sudden sweep of movement. His limbs manage to find solid ground once more, and though the world still spins around him, he manages to focus on the exposed clearing surrounding him, the dried brush beneath him and at last, the foreboding figure before him. With heavy black plumage, dark eyes and an all-too-familiar build, his stomach clenches tightly within him - he knows there is not denying. At last - "Father."
Perhaps there was something in his blood, hiding dormant like a disease, bubbling up each and every time he fathered a child. There was no end to the count of monsters that the magician had birthed – they were each grotesque in their own way, they each had the tinge of something not quite right on them. Was the magician truly that horrific that even his very blood carried a disease to taint his children like demons? It seemed that most of his offspring were spitting images of him – perhaps not in color or trait, but in the very deep ache of their heart. In the way they crawled through shadows like they were making love to them. In the way each of his children practiced so well a disappearing act for years on end, only to revive themselves when the time was ripe.
It seemed you, Underwood, were no different. You shy from the populated meadows of the Valley, seeking the dark woods and caves that your father knows so well. You revel and delight in the way others look at you flinchingly – like a beast that does not belong. And oh yes, Eight does not undermine or ignore the part of you that has become a monster- the part of filial love inside you that is just not quite right.
Perhaps it could be attributed to the magician leaving you oh-so-alone. Perhaps if you had a father figure, there would not be a burning love inside of you for mother. But then again, perhaps not. Perhaps it is the blood of the magician running through you, the disease that has manifested itself inside your bones (and heart). Perhaps this is what would have happened all along.
You listen to the pull inside you, the magic whispering throughout your skin and bone – could you just have been curious? Or did you feel your father calling? Whatever the case – you knew instantly. And how could you not? Although the colors are different, you are your father’s son (and no doubt, have inherited his unblinking, steady, eyes). Strange, isn’t it? How we can recognize where we came from, although we’ve never met? ” Underwood. Late is better than never, certainly with your siblings on the way.” With Topsail still in the tangles of time and transportation – this was the first time Eight had been alone with you, with the first of his children in many years. Fathering was never his strong suit. “Tell me, Underwood – what are you trying to do?”
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in
