"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
He wakes before morning has fully broken, rising beneath a sky still ringed with dark and shadow, with only the narrowest strip of pink gold cracked along the horizon. Sleep falls away from his eyes and his mind, loosed like dust that he shakes free with a quiet little smile. He knows it’s too early to wake mom and dad though - they remind him often to wait to start the day until the sky is full of peach and pink and sleepy cornflower blues. But he doesn’t mind watching the stars fade until they are invisible once more, or the moon, though it stays out longer than the rest. Maybe because it’s so large and so bright.
He lets the chorus of birds wake his parents, though he watches them closely for signs of wakefulness - the twitch of eyelids, the snuffle of a nose, the languid stretching of a long limb. Then he is upon them at once, all full of soft brown eyes and such gentle little baby smiles as he pushes his nose against their sleepy faces in greeting. “I did good.” He says, in case they hadn’t noticed yet. “The sky is pink and everything!” He wilts a little, his face scrunching in soft bashfulness. “Well it’s mostly pink, but the stars are definitely gone.”
Mom laughs, and so he beams at her gentle amusement. “Yes baby, you did so good.” He grins again, tossing his head to throw those cornsilk wisps of forelock away from his eyes as he refocuses on dad who is still not getting up. “Come onnn.” He says, and there is such gentle excitement glowing in those mahogany dark eyes. “You said we could go explore today!” Which he obviously hasn’t forgotten, not for even a second. “I wanna see a dragon!” He whispers this (though the sound is just as loud as when he doesn’t whisper) as though he’s afraid a dragon will come snatch him up if it hears him say so.
There is peace and comfort in the twilight hours when they curl together. The warmth of her pressed against him, the faint movement of her ribs and soft sounds of her exhalations reminders of her love and forgiveness. Some days it feels as though he must burden her too much with the way he so desperately loves and needs her, but every morning he awakens with her by his side.
The gently exuberant whuffling against his cheeks and still closed eyes bring a faint, quickly hidden smile to his lips. “Hmmmmm,” he grumbles softly as he opens his eyes to find their youngest pressed close, young face wreathed in delight. There is joy in that sight. A joy that quickly dispels the reminder of that which they had also lost.
But it still aches.
He had been terrified when Ilka had begun swelling with life after their world had been shattered by the birth of their stillborn son. Worried that this time it would take her instead. He would have had no one to blame but himself. But the birth of Sistine and Clockwork had been flawless. And then their youngest had arrived, as perfect as the rest.
Perhaps one day the shadows in his eyes would fade and he could banish the fear that burrowed deep in his soul when Ilka swelled with child. Were he a better man, he would never have placed her in such a position to begin with. But he is not, and he is certain that one day it would be his undoing. He could never hope to bring himself to let go because, ultimately, love has made him a terribly selfish man.
Gently, he traces his lips in a morning greeting across the satin skin of her neck and shoulder. With a smile, he places a kiss on her cheek before stretching long limbs and levering himself into a standing position. Phosphor’s impatience does little to hurry his leisurely rising, but once he has shaken the dust of the night from his roan frame, he turns the amused brown of his gaze to his youngest.
“A dragon, hm?” he finally replies, his voice low and thoughtful as he humours his son. “I know where we might find one. But it’s a little chilly there. You sure you’re ready to brave the cold?”
He has never noticed the shadows that hide in their eyes when they turn and smile at him, never noticed the flicker of remembering or how it traces strange lines of tension across jaws clenched a shade too tight. He has only ever known their love, and it has built a gentle heart inside his chest, one without walls or scars or long fissures buried and ready to break. Their gift to him is a wholeness that leaves sunshine in his smile and summer in his beautiful brown eyes, trust in the absence of knowing what living wound lives inside them.
There is such sunshine in his delicate face now as he watches his parents wake and touch one another, a gentle love full of gentle smiles and gentle kisses. He knows little yet, but he does know that they love each other, and that it is the best gift either one could have given the other. Besides him, of course. The little dark colt cannot help but to interrupt them, pushing into their embrace and nuzzling mom’s black chest, dad’s smoky blue shoulder. He loves them so much.
But he is distracted when dad speaks, and his first words aren’t no - though, truly, they so rarely are. Phosphor gasps, his little black tail waggling furiously as excitement races through his tiny body. “You actually know a dragon?!” His eyes are so wide with awe and wonder, a shade of brown the color of dew-damp bark. But of course dad knows a dragon, dad knows literally everything!
“I don’t mind the cold!” He promises so fervently, promises well before he really hears dad or the agreement that comes out of his own whiskered mouth. Oh. Cold? His face wrinkles as he thinks, his little curved ears drooping sideways and then flicking back, because thinking is such hard effort. “I mean, I’m pretty fluffy, right?” His voice is gentler now, just a shade unsure because he knows he wants to be brave, but he isn’t sure he has any idea how to be. But mom must notice his gentle concern, because she nuzzles her soft lips along the crest of his neck and up to his ears until his worry melts and soft giggles take their place. “You are bravest Phosphor I know.” She promises, kissing his brow as he bumps his head against her.
It’s comforting to see the innocence in Phosphor’s open, excited features. To know no shadows darken the corners of his heart like they do Shah’s. To see that, despite everything, he can still protect this one pure soul from the less kind things in life. For a little while at least.
It still pains him that he had not been able to give that to Ion. To know that his absence is his fault.
With Phosphor at least, he had done something right. It is spoken so plainly in the gentle excitement in his eyes and unfettered exuberance of his spirit. It brings a smile to Shah’s lips and a lightness to his heart. For a moment, even a chuckle bubbles from his throat as his son gasps in shocked delight at the revelation of his acquaintance with a dragon.
“A fearsome one at that,” he replies teasingly, gaze warming as he lips gently at the tufts of Phosphor’s mane. Then his voice lowers, as though his next words contain a great secret. “ But I bet if you told him a great joke he’d forget to growl.”
Turning his gaze to Ilka, he presses his lips warmly against the curve of her cheek to hide his grin. Her words of encouragement, timed so perfectly in that uniquely beautiful way she has, bolster Phosphor in the wake of his uncertainty. Chest swelling at the sight, he allows them their moment before adding, “I think you have just the right amount of fluff for the job. What do you say?”
