resurrect the saint within the wretch

Winter once again bears its ugly head and like every year prior, Warden finds himself lost within the static of blizzard-like snow. His wings ache fiercely with the sheer intensity of the cold, let alone the power it took him to steer through the whirlwind of ice and howling, bitter wind. The storm rips at his skin, bitter and unrelenting; and even though he is in the midst of chaos, there is a sense of calm in the deep blue of his eyes. It was in these moments - where the world seems more turbulent than himself - that he feels the sting of hope. (He also felt this looking into her eyes, but that is something he cannot bring himself to contemplate yet - not when so much stands in his way.)

The last time he had been in the forest was also after a malevolent tempest. During the summer, when the wood was humid and sweltering, the sound of moisture dripping from branches echoing the silence. He wonders briefly where Aislyn had gone off to after their heavy conversation, but the thought of her is mild and is quickly lost on him as he lands solidly into fresh snow, the entire forest seemingly at a standstill in time.

The stallion snorts, his body littered with ice crystals that still cling to him from his flight through the storm, a slight shiver running down his spine. Warden’s eyes lift almost forlornly to the stretch of gray skies that blanket the tops of the deep green trees; it’s in the silence that he feels the most out of control.

He sighs heavily, giving his sore wings a good shake or two before pulling them in close to his sides. The movement sets shimmers of snowflakes and ice free from his feathers, cascading around him like dust before floating unceremoniously into the snow. Dusk threatens the afternoon sun, sending long shadows across the perfect white canvas.

Warden isn’t sure how long he is alone in the forest when the silence is broken by the obvious sound of another. He lifts his head slightly, peering into the somewhat darkness almost blearily. What he finds causes the pale pink of his mouth to twitch upwards. It’s a smile, but it is hesitant and thoughtful - their meetings have yet to show anything but death and he wonders if they should both expect as much now.

Either way, he greets her warmly.

“Lilliana.”

resurrect the saint within the wretch

The darkness in Warden’s eyes now swims with the reflection of silvery-blue light, surprise also brought to life within them as the glowing orb bounds towards him. His relatives were known for their wielding of light and for a moment he thinks of Rhaegar specifically - but in his thoughts he realizes that this isn’t exactly the same thing and though it is unlike the horned stallion to be, he is curious. Warden finds himself blinking and near-blind by the intensity of the light that buzzes with energy, turning his ivory face away from it and lowering his head, attempting to peer up at Lilliana between his spiraling horns.

“A new friend, Lilliana?” His voice is a grumble in its stony tone, but there is a playfulness that dances in his eyes. Maybe it is the bouncing ball of light that brings out this side of him or the fact that it is making it very clear that it is not a fan of Warden. The stallion raises his head as the light moves upwards, hovering above them like a spotlight and painting the white snow in its blue light, sending the landscape glittering. “You’ve named him?” There is a quirk to his brows as his gaze falls back to Lilliana, not yet understanding that Leonidas had his name long before he had come to the chestnut mare.

A friend.

The way she describes him makes him tilt his head slightly, lifting his chin upwards to inspect the light once again. He wonders how she’s decided what to call him - a friend - when their encounters have always left both of them reeling and emotionally drained. Is she as tense as he is, waiting for the moment where his eyes turn milky white and he leaves them, only to return with visions that she can’t help but see? He snorts softly, pressing his lips together thoughtfully. Had what he saw come to fruition?

He hesitates, debating inwardly before finally asking: “How are things?”

An innocent enough question, but for the two of them, it holds much more.

resurrect the saint within the wretch

Warden snorts softly as the ball of silver-blue light - Leonidas - descends upon him once again in a swooping dive. The horned stallion took an uncertain step back to give the star a bit of space, unsure of its intentions - though based on Lilliana’s reaction, they weren’t exactly good ones. There is indifference that falls across the planes of Warden’s ivory face, but within it are glimmers of humor, finding it only fitting that a companion without a face would be so unhappy with him.

Before Lilliana begins to respond, Warden can feel the weight that grows suddenly between them. His expression falls as hard as steel, his navy eyes darkening. It was only a matter of time, he reminds himself and there is a moment where he thinks to remind the chestnut mare as well. But she is more to him now than the stranger that had accidentally seen his visions - she no longer is some wide-eyed mare with dreams of stopping the future. She is a friend, and so his mouth remains in that firm, terse line.

The future always comes.

For a while, he had almost forgotten this truth. He had nearly forgotten the burden that she carried (because of him) and that he had been the lucky one - though terrible, these premonitions did not involve his loved ones. They came to pass as he had told her they would, but they do not affect him. Not in the way that it affects her. He is only the Watcher, forced to know the future but lack the ability to do anything more than that. But Lilliana had refused this; there was a way, always a way, and though he had scoffed at her hope, he had held onto it for himself for a long while.

His nose twitches at the sight of her grief, his dark ears falling into his mane. The sound of hopelessness in her voice is oh so familiar and it makes his jaw clench tightly. He forgets about Leonidas for a moment, his dark legs bringing him closer to her.

Warden has no words of wisdom for her; nothing to soothe the raw emotion and heartbreak that is so easily seen and heard. He can only offer to help carry the weight of it - for he had been the one who put it there in the first place.

“You weren’t meant to see it,” he whispers darkly, anger furrowing in his brow. It isn’t aimed towards her, of course, but at himself. She had seen and known things that she shouldn’t have and he left her to figure it out herself. How much more is her grief thanks to him? Warden doesn’t reach out to touch her but the way that he holds his head shows that there is a part of him that feels like he should.

He inhales deeply. “And it never ends,” he reminds her calmly, somehow able to soften his voice.

“The cycle begins again.”

Even now he feels the creeping dread stirring coldly in his stomach. What else would come to pass?

resurrect the saint within the wretch

He likes  to pretend that ancestors are not involved in the current events that have come to pass - that their watchful eye in the stars have not played a hand in each terrible thing he has witnessed, or simply watched as death and destruction wields its infinite sword. It swings much like a clock, time ticking away without anyone to stop its solemn march forward, deliberate and relentless. It’s covered in blood and tears and sweat, a thing that Warden had become familiar with far too soon and far too long. He nearly greets it like a friend, welcoming the sabotage that runs rampant like a plague. He can do nothing so he does nothing, yet in this moment beneaeth the winking starlight and darkness, he wonders if he should.

Do something.

Powerless is something he has always felt; dark and lonely and on the verge of collapse. Torn between what keeps him whole and what tears him in half. There is always hope for the future yet he cannot bring himself to fully live in that hope, knowing that the future will not change once he has seen it.

It always comes.

The horned stallion’s throat is tight with emotion, but he remains stoic and placid beneath the flickering starlight that spreads silver light between the two of them. The sadness in her eyes match his own and his dark blue eyes fill with unshed tears - the ones he saves for the departed he has yet to know, the ones he witnesses in the future but not in his own time. Her voice comes to him and it is not how he remembers - she is broken, unlike their last encounter. He scowls, disliking the way that darkness has come to shroud the brightness she once gave him, his ears falling into the darkness of his mane on his neck.

“Maybe,” he replies darkly, not believing her but not wishing to speak against her. He cannot imagine that anyone should see what he sees - but he will not strip her of this if that is what she wishes to cling to. He will not tear her down when there is so much that already has. He turns his ivory face away from her, staring into the darkness of the forest and allowing the cold to seep deeper into his bones and in his chest.

A single ear pricks towards her, his dark gaze flickering towards her. “The cycle can’t be broken.” His voice is flat and even, deliberate and with a sharpened edge that he carries wearily. There is finality in his voice, grave and full of caution. His face turns to her once again, the deep blue opal of his horns sparkling in the light of Leonidas’ glow.

“But perhaps it can be bent.”

resurrect the saint within the wretch

He recgonizes that anger as her ears fall into the depths of her curling mane and he wonders what kind of way her eyes will burn into him when she finally turns to meet his face. He is patient, stoic and nearly frozen before her, his two-toned neck stretched somewhat towards her as if meaning to comfort her with his touch, but failing to find the strength to bring himself those few steps closer. There is a myriad of emotions in her eyes when she raises her head to him and Warden finds his own face meeting hers with a nearly indifferent expression - a look that comes from years of disappointment; years of wanting the future to change and watching it crumble (just the way he had seen it) into oblivion. It is a face of lost cause, of dwindling hope, that had once believed in happy endings (and still does) but finds no foothold to make any of it come true. Warden is hardened by each vision, his heart and emotions further entrapped in thorns each time he returns, and it nearly captivates him to see all of the emotions that flash in her once gentle eyes.

The Watcher turns his face slightly away from her to then to stare into the darkness of the forest around them, where it is still and quiet and the world is sleeping.

“I would,” he murmurs in a huff, turning a single white ear towards her. “but I do not wield that sort of power.” He has been given a curse, not a gift, and he wonders if she’s forgotten this or if, even in the midst of very real death, she still clings to the hope that has long since turned into cooling embers in the pit of Warden’s stomach. But where one fire dies, one arises. Where one is on the brink of extinguishing, another is raging wildly.

Her question makes him snort sharply, jerkingly turning his head further from her with a sweep of his neck. The obsidian of his horns catch the faint blue light of Leonidas, sparkling brilliantly in the star’s rays. His ears are hidden beneath the tousled black of his mane, his jaw clenched tight. He doesn’t know how to share it with her, how to explain that he is always angry, that it flows from him like the lava from Tephra’s volcano. There is a desolation that resides in his chest and it burns like acid, a heavy weight that is quietly crushing from the inside out. “What kind of question is that?” He finally says bitterly, refusing to meet her gaze. “Of course I’m angry. It’s stolen everything from me and then makes me watch it steal from everyone else, too. I’m powerless.”

Warden’s voice begins bristly and angry, but wanes and fades into such sadness, he cannot help but look up to Leonidas with sad, confused eyes. He sighs bitterly before closing his eyes, lowering his head, and shaking it gently. How did it always come back to him? (Because the cycle never ends.)

He almost wishes he’d have a vision now - to show her, to remind her - just what it is that plagues him so. Every time he is reminded of just how small he is, how incapable he is of protecting those around him, and how useless he is.

When his head turns towards her again, it is almost with curiosity that his eyes meet hers. “Why are you asking me this? Why talk about hope when there is none?”