It’s the furthest he’s ever wandered from home, and, to be completely honest, he’s not entirely sure he remembers the way back. He knows the vague direction, and that if he hits the ocean he’s gone too far, but the specifics seem slippery when he tries to grasp them in his mind. There’s a voice in his head that wonders at him if he shouldn’t be more worried about being lost, but it doesn’t really feel like lost yet. He’s only just gotten here and there’s no homesick in his belly, only a faint curiosity as he wanders beneath the branches of brand new trees.
Trees.
More trees.
Maybe he hadn’t entirely thought this adventure through all the way, because if he had he probably wouldn’t have picked a place that was so much like home. Home was quiet forests and enormous trees, the thick cloy of decomposing pine needles and the musk of the ever-damp earth beneath.
This place was also a forest. With enormous trees, pine needles, and spongy ground.
He sighs loudly, softly exasperated and more than a little embarrassed as he considers his oversight. Maybe adventure just isn’t for everyone. His dad was certainly made for it, slipping in and out of shadows, in and out of different realms like it was no big deal. He probably didn’t even realize how cool it was that he could do that. Sometimes old people take that stuff for granted. They get so used to doing it that it doesn’t seem special anymore.
The trouble was, Harbinger was anything but special. Black and gold in a world of bright, soft colors. Tangles of gold forelock that were home to many a leaf or twig, and possibly even a few dead bugs. The wings might’ve been something special if he had any idea how to use them, but in all the years since he’d been born they only hung enormous and limp at his sides. He tried to keep the feathers clean, rinse them in the streams of home and scrub the darkest stains against the moss, but it only ever lasted the few moments he stayed in the water. As soon as he wandered home again, the pale white tips would darken and stain against the ground.
The sound they make as they drag along beside him now is not unlike the way the leaves whisper at the wind. He used to dislike the sound, but after three years he hardly even notices it anymore. Kind of like the feel of a heartbeat or the sound of breathing. Always there, but mostly invisible until you’re specifically paying attention to it. He listens to it now because he’s gotten rather good at feeling sorry for himself, because the whisper-shush makes his dark head drop low and his ears sag and those bright eyes shine with feelings in the half-dark of shadows.
He very nearly misses the pale mare altogether, a wonder since she is so soft and a gentle shade of bright that reminds him of moonlight. But she says something and he doesn’t mind that the words likely weren’t for him, because now he’s captured them in a gentle fist and he can feel curiosity bloom from them. His gold eyes are soft and bashful when he peeks around a wider clump of trees, peering out at her from behind tangles the color of spun sunshine. “Hi,” he says, and that voice is so soft, so shy as he steps around the tree enough that she’ll be able to see all of him - black and gold and those broken angel wings, “what don’t you know?”
harbinger
the current is strong, my arms are weak
but you are the branch within my reach