"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
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
She is saturated in sea-water, growing mane plastering itself to her arching little neck. Although the heat of the sun might’ve evaporated the liquid enough that she isn’t dripping, her mahogany body is still slick. The backs of her legs are splattered with moist dirt and behind her heels is a churned-up path where her quick feet had ran.
Wishbone can still hear the sound of waves rushing against the beachfront, but she is no longer standing on the shore. She’d gone for a quick swim to wash the sweat off her body before resuming her previous task — one which might haunt her for the rest of her life. The slope of the volcano rises in front of her, rocky and seemingly impossible to climb. If she pulls her neck back far enough, Wishbone can see the top of the volcano outlined against the clear blue of the sky.
Her determination is pliable, seen with the bruises and scrapes on her knees, the tendrils of auburn-highlighted hair sticking to her cheeks, and the dainty puffs of her exhausted breaths. Wishbone is still a tiny thing, especially in comparison to the stern face of the volcano, but it doesn’t seem to stop her. She manages to climb atop of a flat boulder, mere inches closer to her goal of summiting the beast, and a caw of pride escapes her mouth.
Wishbone laughs — moist with ocean water, cloaked with sweat, caked with dirt, the shins of her front legs bleeding slightly, auburn eyes wild with the passion of her determination.
Warrick surveys his kingdom with the reverie of flight, expertly twisting in the clear skies with the mere twitch of his feathers, the large wings pumping only ever so often at his sides to keep him adrift thousands of feet above the air. Beqanna had gone silent lately, and the silence brings him a sense of foreboding, which keeps him ever watchful on each resident that lingers on the sand and through the smoke of their home. He especially kept a close eye on the newest member, a fresh and wild child that is his own.
The clear skies turn darker as he nears his volcano, the smoke and ash filtering through the otherwise clean air that he flies through. He is never too far behind her (he did this both with Svedka and Solace, and he wonders how long it will take for Wishbone to realize that he is always near), and she is never too far from the volcano. His other children did not fancy the lava spitting mountain like he had, and when he finds Wishbone attempting to climb its steep rock, a pleasant smile finds the dark blue of his mouth.
He lands with a solid thud behind her, just as she had finally found herself on the flat sheet of rock just a foot or two from the sandy ground. He smells of the sun and the wind, and as his grand wings fold into his sides with a flutter of blue feathers, the salty spray of the beach already has begun to cling to every inch of him. The stallion steps forward with a rumbling laugh, reaching his neck towards her to lightly bump the auburn of her rump with his nose. Her placement on the rock puts her a little bit above his eye-level, and the idea of her looking down on him causes an unceasing smile to find his mouth.
“You will get there someday, little one.” He tells her with a hint of a laugh on his gentle voice.
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
She is a lucky girl. The politics of Beqanna do not worry her daily thoughts (or any thoughts, for that matter). She’s very fine with the idea of her father carrying those weights. For now she is still growing and developing, testing her capabilities and forcing her limits. Thoughts of where she might stand in the future pass through her mind like quick, fluttering butterflies. Most of the time she is only thinking of where she is now.
Right now, she’s on her way to summit the volcano that might nearly become the death of her. The thud behind her shoulders doesn’t worry Wishbone too much — Tephra holds many secrets which make various noises and she merely chalks the sound up to another creak within the walls of her home.
But the powerful scents of wind, salt, and sun wash over her and, underneath it, the familiar and comforting smell of her father. His laugh rumbles deep into the earth and Wishbone nearly feels it among the cavities in her chest. They are a tinkling duo (father and daughter) and she giggles when his nose tickles at her rump.
She pivots on the flat surface of the rock to face her father. Her sable nose dips close to her skinny neck in order to see him with her amber eyes. At his words, her mouth moves forward to give him a sweet little kiss on his forehead amid the dark chunks of his forelock. “Have you ever been to the top?” Wishbone expects he has, with his wings carrying him everywhere.
It comes naturally to him - this chalice of fatherhood. He knows that it is something that is harder for others, and he is glad to have found that he takes the cup willingly and it overflows, bringing warmth to the deepest and darkest parts of him. Even now, he feels the inner stirrings within himself as winter comes on the winds, the need to procreate and then nurture his offspring (though he found himself especially close to the daughters that his women have birthed). Having children of his own made him full of purpose and pride, especially when his firstborn now rules Hyaline with the gentlest yet wisest of crowns.
He thinks of Wound, and how this child and their friendship has seemed to open her up to all the possibilities that Tephra has to offer. She is confident - somehow different yet all the very same as she had been when he had first met her that starlit night in Tephra’s waves. It is endearing, to see her blossoming beneath the weight of diplomacy and purpose, and he knows that having a child has helped Wound reach her true potential.
Wishbone giggles and cranes her neck to look at him, the gentlest of doe-like eyes meeting his with warmth and adoration. She reminds him of Solace (despite the coloring), with her dream-like hope and bravery. His heart aches for his firstborn, and he wishes that the strings of the kingdoms did not keep them apart as often as it did. The velveteen of Wishbone’s nose brushes against his broad forehead, a tender kiss on his skin from his youngest daughter. The Overseer beams, his brilliant blue gaze sparkling with delight and laughter. He is lost to this moment, everything else forgotten on the warm and humid winds of Tephra.
“I have,” he tells her with a smile, lifting his head slightly so that his gaze propels upward to the large presence of the volcano that stretches above them. He had gone many times, even without his wings. Most recently he had been with Amorette, the signs of their adventure still on his shoulders from where the lava had spit at them, and where the dark woman had healed his wounds. It is dangerous at the top - mesmerizing, however. He knows that one day Wishbone will be strong enough to scale the volcano like every other horse in their kingdom, but for now he enjoys this time where she is too small to figure out how to get there on her own. “Maybe one day you will sprout wings, just like I did.” He lowers his gaze and nudges her again with his muzzle, his whiskered lips tickling over her sienna skin, still soft from her youth.
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
Wishbone doesn’t know of the catalyst she is. She knows of her mother and father now (her mother a gentle but passionate woman, her father a kind-hearted leader and endearing parent) and not who they were before her arrival. She doesn’t know of the way Wound would turn her gaze away from the shameful eyes, or how easily Warrick walked without the weight of the crown. Perhaps they will change again — as life often does — but they will remain her parents even still.
Delight flutters in her heart as her father tips his head back to glance at the peak of the volcano. Wishbone doesn’t know of the treachery or promise that the landmark holds (the darkness from the prisoner’s life underground, the ever-strengthening love of her father and his true lover among lava-caves). It is tall and mighty and impossible before her, though one day she might reach the top with sweat on her cheeks and joy in her heart.
He seems to sense her thoughts. A wild laugh pulls itself from Wishbone’s mouth. “That sounds like it would hurt!” Without warning she is boldly jumping from the flat rock, inhaling a quick breath at the sensation of butterflies in her stomach as she falls. For a few seconds she is flying — gliding through the sky on a pair of inky black wings with the clouds rolling under her feet — but then she tumbles onto the ground with a dramatic gasp.
Just as quickly as she had leapt down, she is climbing back onto her feet. Her right shoulder is sore from how she landed (it wasn’t the most graceful leap in the world, after all) but she is too delighted to weave between the strength of her father’s legs to care. She stops from between his forelegs, tipping her chin up so she can look at Warrick. “Didn’t the fairies give you your wings?”
His daughter is bold and fearless (much how he had been as a child himself), a smile finding his dark navy lips as she laughs joyously. She is untouched by the cruelness of the world, protected by the great wings of her father that keeps the shadows and fear at bay. He cannot protect her forever, he knows (Solace and Svedka are left to their own devices now in the ways of the world), but he will do so for as long as he can. Warrick can see, however, that the young filly holds a certain wonderous heart, one that he can see will make it hard for him to keep her grounded, set fire by a wandering soul and an adventurous, daydream-like mind. The thought, though it makes him sorrowful (for she will quickly grow, more so than his other children had), brings a warmth in his chest, for she will not live a simple, quaint life. He can already tell by her spirit that she is destined for much more.
Wishbone jumps - quickly and without warning! - and Warrick’s smile fades as his brow furrows, attempting to leap forward to perhaps somehow catch his daughter. He is unsuccessful, for she is on the ground before he can do anything about it, though his face rushes to meet hers with fluttering nostrils, warm breaths against her skin as he quickly examines her. He barely has enough time to do so, for she has clamered upwards onto her thin legs in a scramble, a huff leaving her tiny chest. She’s quickly beneath him, met with the quick rustling of wings as they stretch outwards from his body, lowering his face so that his muzzle touches the charcoal of her nose, twitching his whiskers against hers. With a soft kiss on her nose he lifts his head, his blue eyes still on his daughter.
“They did,” he tells her, stretching the navy feathers farther with just a flick of the lithe bone, their grand wingspan casting a shadow over them both. The smell of wind and sun return with the movement, bold against the normal smoke and ash beneath the mountain. He curls one of the wings, the very tip of the longest feather turning to rest beneath her chin, “My family came from the stars, and the fairies saw it fit that I should be able to return to them whenever I wish.” He smiles warmly, flicking the curled wing back out to reach its full width, beating them once, twice in a grand sweep of wind and sand, before letting them fall limp at his sides. He knew she would want to investigate them more.
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
She is not like other children. Wishbone is independent already, racing off after some adventure or another. She enjoys the tune her mother sings when her legs are weary, but she is often too busy chasing seagulls or jumping off ledges to curl against Wound’s breast. She’s wild enough to give a quiet huff of frustration when her father’s nose prods and sniffs along the lines of her body, searching for danger.
One day she will miss the way he dove to catch her and poked to find injury.
Wishbone closes her amber eyes when his kiss touches her dainty nose. When he speaks, her eyelids slide open. She is caught in the dream of his story and the swirl of wind and sun that dances around them with the push of his wings. The breeze roars in her ears for a moment and she laughs recklessly.
“Does that mean I come from the stars too?” She would love to come from the stars under the context she takes away from her father’s statement. She can picture herself now, climbing down from the heavens on a mountain of constellations, glowing like a nighttime goddess. Whether physically or not, Wishbone is spun from the same material as the shooting stars — a quick flash of brilliant light blazing across the sky. She holds the courage and fire of all the blazing stars inside her young little body.
Her father’s wings are open for exploration and the girl is quick to jump at the opportunity. She sticks her sable muzzle against dark feathers. Her lungs deeply inhale the scents of sun and wind and smoke — the scents of home. The feathers are soft against her cheek and she runs her whole body along them gleefully like a cat purring against a sofa. “They’re so soft!”
It seems as if she is growing up right before his eyes - somehow she is older than she had been just moments before, and though he is proud of her independence and growth, his heartstrings pull at the thought of when she is no longer with him. Just as his other children had left, he is sure that Wishbone will as well. He hopes that one day a child of his own will remain on the volcanic peninsula, but it seems that the adventurous characteristic he used to have as a child runs rampant in each of his children so far. Like his other children - she loves his stories. Her wide, doe-like eyes search his face as he tells her of his ancestors, and for a moment he is sure that there are stars in her amber eyes.
“Yes it does, Wishbone,” he tells her proudly, a soft chuckle leaving his throat as she begins to explore the warmth of his feathered wings, brushing against their velveteen texture with her equally soft coat. “One day I will return to the stars, and so will you, and we will race across the sky together.”
His eyes sparkle with happiness, and as she rubs herself against his wings, he nips softly at her rump as it passes, suddenly feeling exceptionally adrenalized. He throws his head up with a sharp snort, suddenly prancing away from her and unshielding her from the cover of his wings as they pull upwards, the sun now warming her back. He swipes his wings once, lifting himself slightly into the air with their strength, then lands with a solid thump before tucking them quickly into his sides, reaching forward to tug at her forelock with gentle teeth.
“For now, let’s race to the beach.” He gives her a split second to digest his words, before leaping to the side and taking off into a canter, this black mane and tail streaming out behind him.
Warrick
I am getting super Mufasa/Simba vibes right now and I love it.
<3 He is so gonna miss her when she’s gone. D:
@[Wishbone]
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
She doesn’t quite understand what he tells her. One day she will come to understand they must all end at some point (that their lungs will have an initial breath and a final breath). Wishbone is too young to put those concepts together in her mind. She doesn’t know of her ancestors swirling in the skies above their heads, of the reasons why her father tips his chin toward the constellations when they glow at night.
One day she will. For now, she answers his enthusiastic snort with one of her own. Her father startles into a rare form and she seizes the moment. Wishbone will come to adore her father in his moments when he is just her father and not the millions of other things he must be — lover, Overseer, guardian, protector, friend, diplomat. She is encouraged by his excitement, feeling the strength of it course through her body.
She giggles when he mouths at her forelock. The tug isn’t painful, but comforting. Her heart bubbles with affection as Warrick challenges her and then begins cantering away. Her petite ears twitch in a moment of confusion before the words settle into her mind. Then she is chasing after him, gangly legs in a full-out sprint. She weaves between the undergrowth effortlessly (a sign of her familiarity with her home and her unhinged recklessness), determined to beat her father to the beachfront.
credit to eliza of adoxography.
@[Warrick]
We can keep this going if you want, I'm down for whatever. I wasn't sure where you wanted to end so I left it open for continuation. (: