It takes him almost a week to recuperate from his trek to the Jungle. He holes up in all of his old spots, nestles deep within the cavernous mountains as winter begins the slow process of winding down. He relishes the cold that manages to seep through crevices in the rock. Every cool draft of air on his skin is a balm to his weary soul. The lands between his wintry home and the Amazons (not to mention the ‘Zons themselves) had been substantially warmer - even in the throes of winter - and by the time he had skirted the edge of the Falls kingdom, he was practically jogging his way home. The trip had cemented his decision all those years ago to forgo his birth kingdom for the Tundra.
But the journey has not been without consequences. Although Errant has lessened the aching of his bones, has soothed the stiffness of his joints, the fact remains that Crito is still older. It takes him far longer to recover. While he rests his body, though, his mind continues to work on. He thinks of the past (because it feels nearer than ever to him, having been in close proximity to his sister so recently). He remembers the day he first came to the Brotherhood, remembers how his blood brother had been the first to greet him. Errant had thought he might gain an audience with their father, a long-living hope in Crito’s chest, but Arcteryx had vanished shortly after without a meeting ever taking place.
It has always been a sore spot in his otherwise complacent life. It has been enough to simply exist, to feel the cool sting of arctic air on his hide, to taste the bitter lichen and watch the borealis light up the northern sky. He has never asked for much (never shot for the stars, never wished for the moon) but this is a matter he would have liked settled. It’s heavy on his mind while he rests. After watching the shadows move across the walls of various caves for seven sunrises, Crito sets out.
Spring is still crisp in the way the sparse grass feels under his feet. It is different here, of course, slower to start. But he can hear the keening of a rough-legged hawk in the near distance and knows the warmth is sure to follow. New life, he thinks, smiling for the first time at the thought. He is the creator of a small fraction of it. Somewhere deep in the Jungle, he has left his legacy. Its mother had promised to send it northward if it turns out to be a male – new blood for his kingdom. If it’s a female…he’s not sure he will ever meet her. His bones had protested enough on this last trip, he’s doubtful he has another one in him. But that new confidence rises within him – it will be a son and he will have done the Tundra proud.
His storm grey eyes lift when he sees a figure framed by the mountains. Errant, he realizes as he draws closer, just the man I want to see. There are issues he wants to discuss with his king, sure, but also more personal matters. He smiles grows when he moves up besides the black stallion. “Brother,” the roan says by way of greeting, noting that the scars adorning the magician have faded considerably. It’s a curiosity, but he has more pressing matters to address for now. “Hurricane and I have returned from the Jungle. Scorch sends her regards and agrees to the alliance.” He tilts his head towards Errant, revealing the still healing wound the fire-queen left on his face. “Her method of diplomacy still leaves much to be desired.” Crito shakes his head at the recent memory; some things never change. When he raises his gaze again, it turns more critically on his brother. “And how are you, speaking of changes? We haven’t spoken in some time.”
( c r i t o ) |
