all that was me is gone; any

[despoine]

Despoine

Despoine wandered freely and uncharacteristically alone through the tall golden grasses of the meadow. Normally, her father tended to spoil all her fun and prevent her from leaving his sight for any extended periods of time. She just didn’t understand his reasoning, as she wasn’t a little baby anymore. She was practically a grown lady at one year and the golden girl was certain that others her age have gotten to do all kinds of fun things by now. The most Despoine ever gets to do is try to escape her father’s sensitive eyes or attempt to mirror her mother’s aristocratic nonchalance. 

As she passed through the swaying grasses, Despoine brushed her muzzle along their tips like a child was wont to do – curious in exploring everything about her home environment. Her steps had disturbed a resting monarch butterfly and it fluttered from beneath the vegetation and onto her muzzle. She narrowed her amber eyes upon the creature and accused the poor thing of nefarious intentions. 

“Did my Daddy send you?”

Insect and child had a short staring contest before she broke it with a fit of laughter. The butterfly twitched its wings before flying off to find a less restless perch. She managed to escape her father’s clutches today due to her mother’s influence. Despoine had reluctantly been left in her mother’s care for the day and she had very easily gained permission to go off and explore. Her father would surely scold her when he finds out where she’s gone. But she would enjoy her brief taste of freedom for as long as she was able.

[Eight]

I'm a mouth that doesn't smile

I'm a word that no one ever wants to say

Freedom was a beautiful thing – a promise of unbent horizons and stretches of time where you answer to no one. Isn’t that what every curious child wanted? The possibility of everything, the possibility for more. Eight knew very little for wanting freedom – what he wanted, he took. But how interesting it must be to be so young again – so new to the world, where the tickle of wings is a delight to your soul, and the rush of wind through the swaying grass is like a harmony to your mind. What last tickled Eight’s little soul? (Well, perhaps a victory in battle – but even that was a bitter taste in his mouth.)
Eight watches from the high craggy rocks as you frolic throughout the lower field of the Valley – content to giggle and reveal in your momentary liberty. Your golden body compliments the autumnal colors perfectly – a champagne dash of life among the land’s dying foliage. Children were such interesting things – it was rare that he bothered to interact with them, and when he did – it was only to lead them to foolishness and pain. Not quite the man you may want to be stumbling into on this fine day.
He should have been content to withdraw back to the Valley forest in which he normally stayed – hunting the land like a predator for any threat or danger. But his victory over Yael had stirred some sort of life inside of him – and he thought that perhaps his decade of lurking should come to an end. Why not get to know the little things that he was guardian of?
While Eight would have enjoyed taking to the skies and soaring throughout the cool air – his bout with Yael had left him with a nasty fractured wing. And while a bit of magic could fix that right up – what’s the sense in battling if you only need to pansy your wounds? So instead – he eked some magic out of his bones and appeared silently, yards away from you.
“Won’t mummy and daddy be missing you, Despoine?”

e8ght

[despoine]

Despoine

Freedom in her young mind meant simple bouts of independence which were few and far between. It was fleeting and it was exciting. Despoine wasn’t worldly enough to realize that one was never truly free. Responsibilities, familial ties, moral compasses, and kingdom politics were just a tiny sampling of things that tied a person down. Love and loss, humility and strife, plague and war – such things hadn’t yet tinged the girl’s impressionable mind. She still thoroughly enjoyed the simpler joys in life each and every day, unaware of just what the unforgiving world had in store for her future.

A taunting voice cuts through the air, interrupting her solitary exploration.

It beckons to her and the golden girl lifts curious eyes to those of the mysterious being before her. Perhaps her experience with weirder creatures (her moth-like father, snake-skinned mother, and various siblings) prevents her from the fear most others might experience. But she had no need to fear when she was deep into the heart of her Valley home.

“I’m sure they’re already aware,” she says resignedly.

Unfortunately, her little adventures were usually cut short right before she ever got to do anything truly exhilarating.
 
But this newcomer broke the usual pattern. Despoine edged closer and closer, immediately drawn in by his overwhelming aura. She noticed a damaged wing and nosed at it half-heartedly, not truly wishing to cause him great irritation or pain. She mentally compared his feathered wings to her father’s powdery scaled ones and vaguely wondered if there was a greater difference in strength when flying.

Despoine felt no fear in his presence, just simple awe. She had heard stories through both her parents about how one man with great power guarded her Valley home. The girl had never seen him in real life, but she knew him through the unguarded way she trampled through her home, the peaceful nights of slumber, and the bright innocence she had still retained in her youth.

“You’re the protector, aren’t you,” she questions him delightedly.

[Eight]

no matter what they say, I am still the king

Is it not such a shame that as we grow, we lose our innocence? Your freedom now seems like such a solid thing; something you know will always be there (as long as mummy and daddy aren’t looking). Your freedom is a thing of knowledge – you know that as soon as mother lays down to rest, or father is off seeking places to graze, that you will have your freedom. You will have your time to cavort about, play acting as an adult, reveling in the glory and mischief of your ways. You have those delicious moments of independence to always look forward to. To explore the Valley, to delight in earrth’s precious gifts, to alight upon new strangers. You have the ever glowing innocence that these succulent steal away’s will always be there for you.
Will your heart break when you grow and realize that these moments of ‘freedom’ constitute most of your passing time? That when your legs grow long, and your bosom fills out, and the twinkling of your voice turns a bit deeper – that the freedom you know now will actually be tinged with chains. The chains of love and life and rulers and light and dark – there are too many shackles that will weigh on your soul. So take it – run with it, my little poison child – enjoy the blissful ignorance before true freedom weighs down on your soul.
You are matter of fact in your response – as if you know any moment, mother or father would round the corner, calling your name into the echoes of the Valley. There is no fear in your voice – and perhaps that is something that Eight has enabled, along with your freedom. Why, you are such a small girl, the Valley is all the world you have seen, and seen safely. Here inside Her walls, there is no need to fret or worry. You are in a womb filtered with magic, a place where (at the moment) the worst thing to happen would be a bump or a bruise, or a finicky bout with a fox. There is no fear here, no worry (for your little mind, at least). You are assured in your safety, in the knowledge that no harmful stranger could pass through the walls of the Valley – certain, somehow, that even this monstrous man before you means you no harm.
You step forward, nose as soft and small as a fist of ferns bumping against his wing. The pain rifles through his wing, a stark reminder of the cost it takes to protect these lands, protect you, but no cry peels from his mouth. Although the pain may be great, the taste of victory bubbling inside his mouth is sweeter. How many wings have you seen? How many different textures and colors and markings have you spotted with your keen little eyes? Do they fly differently – perhaps one would never know. Perhaps the strength of flight is inside the heart of the winged one.
“And what are you doing so far from them?”
Your question queries as more of a statement – as if you already knew that the man before you was held responsible for why your parents weren’t quite that worried when you wandered. For why the wolves never lurked towards you, and that there was never a thunderstorm ahead while you were traveling alone. Somehow your fear of the towering, traited stallion before you paled when compared with the taste of freedom that was so luscious in your mind.
A huff of air was forced through Eight’s nostrils, a half laugh if you will - “Yeah, you could call me that.” He turns, walking a few paces towards the edge of the treeline, into the forests of the Valley. “You could call me Eight, too.” He calls back to you, chucking his head toward the direction of the forest.

∞

and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in