02-29-2020, 10:26 AM
----------------kiss me until i can't speak
The sound of Aten’s call on this last autumn morning abruptly jars him awake. Has danger finally reached them, his waking mind thinks? But no, Aten does not sound concerned, and the summons is not rushed. He complies, paying attention to political matters for the first time in nearly a half year, and finds Aten in a central meadow just before noon.
The rest of the land is gathered too, but Pteron does not waste his time looking for Reia and their daughter. They won’t be here, not where he could so easily find them. He listens to the stallion explain that his rule as Comte will be the same as it was as Protector, which is the same as it was beneath Lepis and Wolfbane, and so the same as it was when he ruled Taiga alone. Nothing has changed for the champagne stallion despite his title, it seems.
Even if some of you may have thought otherwise, Aten says, and at that the stallion’s olive eyes tack abruptly toward him.
The blue haired stallion takes a quiet breath, one he exhales as an equally muted sigh. This is not his concern, he thinks. There are things more important than his place in Taiga. Spilling of bad blood and sharp words are not his intention, at least not between himself and the champagne once-again leader. Pteron has had his fill of conflict. More than his fill if he is honest, and the reminder causes him to shift the still-healing bones of his wings in discomfort. From an outsider’s perspective he is merely adjusting his wings, and Pteron bites his tongue as the man in front of him continues to speak.
Pain makes him bitter, but the blue-haired stallion has a lifetime of disguising his emotion to hide behind. He does not roll his eyes like the champagne stallion had when witnessing the previous monarchs stand at a higher vantage point to better address the assembled horses. He does not do anything but listen, and listen quietly, and draw no further attention to his battle wounds and the absence of his daughter and his wife. Former wife.
Even when Aten asks them to speak up, Pteron remains silent.
He looks away from the leader after that, his olive eyes taking in the others gathered. Or rather, taking in those that are gone. Wolfbane, Lepis, Marni, Eyas, Celina, Elio, Reia, Adarra. His family, once gathered beneath the shelter of these woods, is scattered. The bulk they added to the territory is missing, the drive and motivation. Where are they now, the man thinks to himself, what are they doing? His mother’s recent visit, following her trip to Nerine, had not covered trivialities like emotional and familial well-being. Instead, she had left him laden with facts and information, which might have been helpful to a leader, but Pteron is a leader no more.
Should he share what he knows in private, he wonders? Or will the knowledge be diluted and muddied by multiple tellings? The indecision is paralyzing for some time. Pteron clears his throat at last, and speaks up.
“I have information, not an opinion, but I think everyone needs to hear it.” Pteron’s olive eyes flick back to Aten, but though he acknowledges the man who holds his former position, he does not wait for his permission. “Pangea is rising, sending out thieves and monsters. The king of Loess is losing himself to his dragon nature, and a cursed and violent creature has taken over my father. There are more dangers in Beqanna than I have known before, and I fear this territory - for it is a territory and not a kingdom, despite my mother’s efforts – is unprepared, as is Nerine, which should be its protector. I hope that the gift from our newest residents, Craft and Anatomy, can provide some safety by giving us an early warning of danger.”
Pteron does not add that he is leaving, and with him the last member of Taiga’s army save the golden leader himself. That is best said in private, he knows. Anyone he might had bid farewell to has already left themselves. He does glance at Ruthless and Lilliana but only for a moment before moving toward Aten’s family – Izora Lethia and their two children. He certainly hopes the champagne stallion is up to the task of their physical defense if the time comes. The blue-haired piebald rolls his shoulders once more, winces at the pull of knitting muscle, and then straightens to hear what other might have to add.
-- pteron --