no matter what they say, I am still the king
What is there truly to figure out in this world? It is a constant spinning circle of the same repetitive triumphs and failures. Beqanna aches on, its descendants die - return - and die again; is there an honest question to answer? Is there an ‘ah-ha!’ moment where one turns on the light and discovers all of the answers inside? He has ceased to care. He has nothing to discover any longer, he has no keen interest in much of anything anymore. Is this what it is like to grow old and never die? Oh, to be young and golden again - to have the courage for dreams and desires and long-laid plans. What is left when you have already accomplished everything?
How does that go again? Some look for greatness, some stumble across it, and for some it is thrust upon? Which will you be, @[Aela]? Will you endlessly search until you find something you deem good enough? Will you croon to the faeries, traverse the corners of Beqanna, each quest achingly longer than the next? Will it be forced onto you (although how can you force something so desired)? Or perhaps, you have just stumbled across it now - in the so plain and simple-colored man before you. Perhaps your search has ended, your query for greatness quelled with the meeting of his man.
It is true - there is nothing fantastical about him. Though his power careens through the history of Beqanna, though he could adorn himself in every imaginable color and trait and swathe of markings, he chooses to remain simple. Bay and black and the barest of physical traits. How strange it was now, compared to when he had been born - traits were far between, and never so far fetched as the ones he saw now. Why, when his mother saw him appear with wings and a horn she had been shocked as could be. And now, they are but simple adornments in the vast plethora of the faerie’s gifts.
You, Aela, make him pale in comparison. You are an explosion of gold and the barest of blue, and he tastes in the air the traits that run through you - all light-hearted and airy, gifts that lean towards something (someone) good. But what are you really? Is your heart as pure as how you look? Does sunlight filter into the shadows deep inside you, too? Can such greatness be birthed from such sanctity and soulfulness? I supposed there is but one way to find out.
He shifts his weight, moving with the shade of the trees, watching your aureate aura go by. No, of course you would not see him - something so boring, so trivial in your grand scheme of things. But still, he calls out, as your back turns towards him and on with your way. “You seem to be on quite the destination. Where to, my gleaming girl?”
(now, the storm is coming in)