WEIR
It is winter again, both in the world and in his heart. They each reflected the season, adorning themselves in the crystalline fragments of ice and snow. One is done in powdery slopes, slick tracks of ice and sharp icicles above one’s head. The other is a multifaceted uniform, a costume of ice made corporeal by the one that wielded its power. Weir takes refuge in the Tundra, stowing himself away into the bleak expanse of the northern region. This was best, this was less painful, this was as it should be. There were no turtles in the Tundra, hardly any animal life to be a consistent reminder to his amber eyes- a reminder of loss and pain.
How his heart had ached, broke and severed into tiny little frozen pieces he was sure. Too cold and too plentiful to mend, to coax back together just yet.
At least here he had the cold, the ice and snow to soothe him. The gentle caress of winter winds finding his icy body like a well worn glove. Weir did not often remain in such a state, cloaked in the frigid hangings of his gift but he has spent his time like this since he arrived, unwilling to will it away. He had already lost such a vital part of himself, he could not bear to be without this too, to force it into submission when it so freely came to surface.
The King’s call finds him easily enough, even as he wanders stoically through the expanse of harsh terrain, he comes because he knows he should. He did not need to be told though, of the loss, of the anger of the fae that ruled the land. It was a first hand telling that Weir had received, a blunt recital, a sharp knife in the chest of news and for the first time his amber orbs held a darkness at the thought. A shadow creeping over his bright eyes and he shut them quickly as the words of the King did the retelling. Weir did not want to hear it, not again, so soon- the rivets still deep against his skin. He did hear them though, each syllable sliding as sharp as a knife against his eardrums and he turned his head away as the telling went on.
His loss had broken something inside of him, what exactly we can’t yet be sure but it was damaged, that much was known. He doesn’t bat an icy lash at the news of a new Queen over the ladies of the Amazons, the carbon wielding female having been the one he had battled against. Suppose she proved her worth in their fight, made her Kingdom proud, and why shouldn’t she have? She fought bravely and without spite and Weir knew that she was a capable candidate if any. And though he thought these things he had no desire to seek the ear or favor of the Jungle, he desired only to exist. Diplomats and Warriors and for what? Weir lost his desire to serve the castes that day he had lost Darwin, too empty to fill himself let alone a rank within the Kingdom.
Instead he stood watchful and silent, a blue colt at his side, eyes wide and bright. Weir would tell him later what had been discussed, if and only if the boy asked. For now the child seemed content with mingling, amber eyes drifting to each of the gathering Kingdom members, ears twitching on his head as they did when he was excited.
How his heart had ached, broke and severed into tiny little frozen pieces he was sure. Too cold and too plentiful to mend, to coax back together just yet.
At least here he had the cold, the ice and snow to soothe him. The gentle caress of winter winds finding his icy body like a well worn glove. Weir did not often remain in such a state, cloaked in the frigid hangings of his gift but he has spent his time like this since he arrived, unwilling to will it away. He had already lost such a vital part of himself, he could not bear to be without this too, to force it into submission when it so freely came to surface.
The King’s call finds him easily enough, even as he wanders stoically through the expanse of harsh terrain, he comes because he knows he should. He did not need to be told though, of the loss, of the anger of the fae that ruled the land. It was a first hand telling that Weir had received, a blunt recital, a sharp knife in the chest of news and for the first time his amber orbs held a darkness at the thought. A shadow creeping over his bright eyes and he shut them quickly as the words of the King did the retelling. Weir did not want to hear it, not again, so soon- the rivets still deep against his skin. He did hear them though, each syllable sliding as sharp as a knife against his eardrums and he turned his head away as the telling went on.
His loss had broken something inside of him, what exactly we can’t yet be sure but it was damaged, that much was known. He doesn’t bat an icy lash at the news of a new Queen over the ladies of the Amazons, the carbon wielding female having been the one he had battled against. Suppose she proved her worth in their fight, made her Kingdom proud, and why shouldn’t she have? She fought bravely and without spite and Weir knew that she was a capable candidate if any. And though he thought these things he had no desire to seek the ear or favor of the Jungle, he desired only to exist. Diplomats and Warriors and for what? Weir lost his desire to serve the castes that day he had lost Darwin, too empty to fill himself let alone a rank within the Kingdom.
Instead he stood watchful and silent, a blue colt at his side, eyes wide and bright. Weir would tell him later what had been discussed, if and only if the boy asked. For now the child seemed content with mingling, amber eyes drifting to each of the gathering Kingdom members, ears twitching on his head as they did when he was excited.
WINTER HAS COME
Weir and Rowling are both here