"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
Red, white, blue, horned, winged, and smelling of family. Warden proves not so hard to find after all, I muse, my hooves crunching the white sand below as I finish my approach.
"Uncle," I intone in my small voice as I step through the dangling vines so like the ones my grandfather recalls from his childhood in the Jungle of yore. I smile at the thought of that, of that generational passage of knowledge from one to another like the flow of water from the river to the ocean. And to look across and see in the face of one of my own blood a story entirely its own... Yes, I can but smile.
I've heard whispers of a new king round these parts. As I shift into my more comfortable mode of mind-based communication, I offer the magnificent stallion -- so like Warrick -- a sweeping bow, cannon to ground and nose to chest. When I rise, my smile grows into a grin. You could not be more worthy if you tried. Congratulations.
Before I complete my first step toward the king, a half-vision half-memory shows me the scene of Warden finding me upon the river, a cauterized and self-inflicted wound sizzling fresh upon my skin. It feels so real that I feel myself reach for my light out of habit; but the trigger passes and I allow the blue light to dissipate from within my mouth. For a moment I worry that the scene might somehow transfer to the man I consider a cousin, nay, a brother, due to some complex interaction between our familial precognition and my telepathy. But after a moment long enough for me to take a deep breath and regain my composure, it seems as though Warden remains unburdened.
Well, good. Offering an unbridled grin, I step forward and in to Warden's embrace and remain there for a long time, though in our family's terms it lasts about an average amount of time. Blowing out as I step back, I cock a hip and swish a wing tip to ward off the tropical flies.
It's been long. Catch me up, will you?
.
@[Warden] no one asked for this but merry christmas here u go xoxo
Warden’s ears turn towards the familiar voice befor his head and neck follow, the deep blue of his gemstone horns sparkling beneath the warm Tephran sunshine that falls through the jungle canopy in pockets of gold light. His white brows rise in surprise, turning the entirety of his overo frame towards his approaching nephew, the lithe bones of his stark white wings flexing somewhat with what could be deciphered as excitement for the stallion. His nose wrinkles at his title said aloud - not King, but Uncle. “You know I’ve always hated that,” he tells him, for the two had always been more like brothers than anything else - even moreso than Warden and Svedka. The age difference always posed difficulty for the now-King and he instead found an easier friendship in both Rhaegor and his sister, Warlight, when he was younger.
It is not often that Warden’s stoic expression is replaced with some other emotion besides neutrality (or deep, terrible sadness and sometimes that raging anger that accompanies his curse), but upon seeing the deep dapples of tawny gold and the ringlets of blue, the King’s sharp edges wear away and soften, revealing that a true smile is rather handsome on his face. There is even a chuckle that resounds deep in his chest at Rhaegor’s bow, feeling the gesture sincere but at the same time unneeded when it is someone he cares for so much doing so. “Thank you, Rhaegor.”
The Watcher steps forward when Rhaegor does, meeting chest to chest so that they may embrace each other in the same way they did years ago on the river. The memory is distant, but Warden’s unable to forget most things that come to his mind. They were both different than they are now, back at the river, and Warden wonders if it is for the better. The burden of his visions still weighs heavy on his heart, plaguing him in a way he knows affects the relationships of those around him. He is hardened by it, sometimes cold as stone, but there are some who are able to break through the tiny fissures and remind him he is more than a beacon for death.
When Warden steps back from the other stallion, the warmth on his face drains slightly. His visions had not stopped since he had seen his nephew last and if anything, they were more devastating. He even hesitates, not sure if Rhaegor wanted the details of each death he had witnessed, or even to know of the fires that plagued the North, or that the East only spared Tephra due to an alliance made before his succession - and that it was one he agreed to keep, for the safety of all their families.
“Too much,” he admits with a heavy sigh and a toss of his horned head. “I can share, if it is a load you have room to carry.” Warden smiles weakly, feeling strange that he has brought such ache to a reunion that should be carefree and happy.
12-14-2020, 04:16 PM (This post was last modified: 12-14-2020, 04:18 PM by Rhaegor.)
Laughter courses through my breast with a forgotten ease at Warden's titular rebuttal, the warmth of it remaining as its sound disappears amidst the quiet fondness of our embrace. Warden, too, shows signs of sincere joy as by the expression on his face and the slight lilt to his voice that he reserves for special occasions; too well do I know the troubles Warden faces, having grown up next to him and roused him from night terrors that were not really night terrors.
I remember him rousing me from some of my own, too.
But our precognitive burdens does not bring me here today and so I attempt to put it out of my mind, though you can imagine that that is easier said than done. Somehow, though, I know that this familial condition curses and plagues me far less in adulthood than it does the stallion before me, I think for the most part because of my telepathy. My mind only hosts so much room for mental magic; Warden's, on the other hand, consumes him whole.
As we retreat from our embrace, a slight restriction appears upon Warden's face, and I wonder at its meaning. I confess that I know little to none of the politics of today; raising Sunset with Dawn demands, nay, captures all of my attention. I never knew I could love anyone as much as I love my son.
Too much, Warden admits. I can share, if it is a load you have room to carry. I bob my head without hesitation in response, the shape of my eyes creasing with concern for what my uncle must carry.
Please, I have room to spare, I think to him, shuffling my wings and chewing my gums in an inviting and comforting way. In fact, it would be my honour to be a safe space for what ails your mind, brother.
It felt good to be surrounded by family once again, especially when that someone was Rhaegor. Warden himself is a broken and fragmented soul; torn by what keeps him whole and what tears him in half. The stallion beside him is one of the few that keeps him intact, despite that each day wears more and more on him, threatening to soon sever the thread that holds him together. He wonders if Rhaegor feels this - they are blood, after all, and bound by visions and their third eyes - but Warden makes it a point to not linger on it for long.
The Watcher turns his head in the direction of the familiar volcano that looms in the distance, turning away from the other to begin a worn route through the tropical jungle and towards it. Falling into step beside Rhaegor, the now-King thinks for a moment before speaking.
“My visions are more rampant,” he begins cautiously; hesitant about what would happen if he were to speak on them. Warden tends to keep his visions to himself, harnessing the burden across his back without any hesitation. “I saw fires in the Loess and in the North, in Taiga. Dragonfire. Magicians were drawn to it, rising up and to take hold of the East.” He pauses, his ears falling into his mane slightly. “All of it has come to pass, as it always does. I fear for the West and our families.” It is not uncommon knowledge that most of Warden’s lineage resides in Tephra. “Pangea wishes to keep the alliance between the West and the East that has been upheld before my succession and I have not seen anything to think it untrue but - ” Warden’s voice trails off, lifting his pale face to the skyline in the distance.
“What good are words when I have seen the aftermath of the thirst for conquest? A deal made in the past does not guarantee a future.” He snorts, tucking his chin towards the deep blue obsidian jewels encrusted in his chest. “How is it we can see the future and have no power to stop it, Rhaegor? We can see the devastation but are powerless to thwart it?”
Before he deigns to answer, King Warden gestures to a path which I know leads to Tephra's mighty volcano. Once again, my mind turns to Kavi, to vines, roots, and strange and wonderous birdsong. It makes sense that my family line would end up here, destined forevermore to return whenever they took a hiatus. Even now my memories of Hyaline, my birth home, seem distant; I cannot begin to imagine what a trip home might feel like. Tephra homes me, now.
So much has changed.
The political landscape of Beqanna included.
I saw fires in the Loess and in the North, in Taiga. Dragonfire. Magicians were drawn to it...
Mention of the east, of my homeland, drops my stomach. All of a sudden the setting of my childhood memories regains it meaning in full force; foolish, to think that such significance could be eradicated with just a touch of adulthood. I see the lake, the grotto, and my triplet siblings as clear as day; sometimes, the visions are of the past. Versions of the future that might have been. I blink hard, sending them away so that I can focus. When Warden mentions fear for our families, I find myself ailed with a similar apprehension.
How is it we can see the future and have no power to stop it, Rhaegor? We can see the devastation but are powerless to thwart it?
The earth underhoof turns to sand and ancient lava rock before I know how to answer. The level of comfort we each share with total silence in one way makes me feel lucky right now, but in another, it just makes me feel morbid and, as Warden said, powerless.
At last, however, the words come.
Before I answer, I must confess that my visions plague me a drop compared to your ocean. I look him in the eyes as I think this to him. But... I will share with you something my grandfather told me as a colt plagued by aching and chaotic visions. He told me, "Rhaegor, you see the future with great clarity." Despite the grave tone of our conversation thus far, I cast my eyes to the cloud-ridden horizon around us and cannot help but to smile. And then he said, "So do I!" I laugh, an empty clicking sound at the back of my throat. I argued with him about this as he hasn't the gift -- cursed as it may be -- but he would not let up, and at long last, he said to me this:
"Rhaegor, you see the future with great clarity. It comes to you in a way I can only imagine. But know, child, that the future comes to us regular folk, too; we, too, live with the looming anxieties of tomorrow. We see the world around us and make our own best guesses about what's to come. And in those guesses, we have a choice: to focus on the potential for good or on the potential for pain. So in a way, we aren't so different in the end; gifted or not, we see our futures and make our way as best we can toward them. We make our way toward them every day, every minute, every second, directing our thoughts to either hope or despair."
I look now to Warden, feeling more as though I speak to him directly now than as if I paraphrase my grandfather.
And the thing is, the future is coming no matter what. The bad parts and the good parts all the same, whether we see them by choice or by rumination or what have you. And it's tragic that the bad parts must come... Tragic, even more, to have to experience them many times over. I grimace at this. But no amount of bad precludes the good. Warden, the good comes, too. My heart pounds in my chest as my vulnerable monologue continues. No one has the power to change that. In one way or another, whether we are here or not, whether we experience the future once or twice or infinitely or not at all, the good and the bad will come all the same.
With this, I halt, unaware of my surroundings but assured in the knowledge that Warden, burdened as he is, pays me his full attention.
That familiar silence joins us once more. My final words take their time formulating; I do not mind.
Warden, I think at last, turning again to look my uncle in the eye, what I learned that day was that my visions are just visions. That I can only contribute my part to the future and no more. And I learned to take the beauty and the warmth out of my visions and to focus on them instead of on the tragedies... Because the tragedies will come.
Tears fill my eyes. A vision, aptly timed, takes me as I allow myself to dwell on the tragedies; I watch as my loved ones die in such specific ways that I can taste the reality of their contents like I can taste the iron in blood. I do not have to say anything for Warden to know what visions ail me now. But as I cry, I must also smile and remember my own words.
He does not expect Rhageor to reply quickly. The two are similar in the way they form their thoughts - they are calculated and pensive, more observant than others are due to their ever-watching third eyes. Warden is not uncomfortable in the pregnant silence between them and the great horns on his head cast shadows down his neck as he lifts his pale face to the sun, letting its rays soak into his sea-salted skin. The weight he bears is heavy - a constant, terrible thing - but somehow feels just a bit lighter in Rhageor’s presence and perhaps even lighter still, if Warlight were to join them. The Western King smiles faintly, his deep blue eyes closing momentarily as they walk steadily beside each other, wondering if it is possible to have all three of them together once more.
The thought feels a lot like hope and in an instant, it is squashed by his own bitterness.
Good things can happen, he thinks to himself (like Lilliana would tersely remind him if she were privy to this certain thought), but in the same breath there is that solemnity of knowing that most of the time, good things won’t happen.
Lowering his hardened face, Warden heaves a sigh as he turns his attention to the other winged stallion beside him.
Rhaegor’s understanding of his visions gives him little comfort in the reality of it all, but it is enough to warm the edges of his face, a slight admirable smile on Warden’s pale lips. Rhageor has seen his share of atrocities, no doubt, as it comes with the territory of their ability. The bay and white stallion’s brow furrows thoughtfully, unable to fathom seeing anything beyond the present that isn’t laced with death or destruction. He snorts softly, knowing he likely never will.
The laughter that falls from Rhaegor’s lips brings Warden’s soft smile into a sharp quirk which allows a bit of glimmer to flash in the depths of his ocean-colored eyes.
The future is coming no matter what.
The mantra has a bitter taste in the stallion’s mouth and he visibly retracts, his gaze falling downcast and away from Rhaegor’s warm eyes.
Whether it be to the slaughter or to paradise, the future always comes.
He swallows hard, hearing the truth in his companion’s words and agreeing with them wholeheartedly; there is good, Warden has lived it. He has seen it within Flower and her gentleness, in Lilliana when her hope rises against the dark of his mind, and even in his father, who still looks to the stars for guidance evermore. But agreeing and believing are two separate entities and Warden struggles with the latter profusely. Each vision weighs harder on him than the previous and it makes believing all the more difficult and impossible.
They have stopped walking but the horned stallion hadn’t noticed until Rhageor brings him to attention with the sound of his name, purposeful and sharp. Warden lifts his head, dark eyes shrouded by a darker brow with his mouth set into a thin line. The emotion in Rhageor’s voice strikes him and he feels the overwhelming intensity of guilt twist in his gut. The knowing is the worst, he had believed. But it’s the after, he had been scolded, that truly feels like hopelessness.
The Watcher brings his face close to Rhageor, touching his pale mouth to the tawny and white of the other’s cheek. The gesture is not meant to only comfort Rhageor but Warden as well, drawing strength from his nephew. The good does come, it has before, but Warden has been cursed from seeing or experiencing it - and it plagues him far deeper than even he understands himself. It is hard to hold onto hope when there is so little left.
So he does what he always does and clings tightly to the hope that burns brightly in Rhageor’s eyes.
“You make it sound so beautiful, Rhageor,” he comments softly before turning his face towards the volcano that looms in the distance before them, bold and brash against the bright blue of the Tephran sky behind it. “I wish I could see it for more than it is.” He pauses, the internal struggle visible on his pale face. “I only hope that what I see will somehow aid me in the coming seasons and help me lead Tephra in a way that brings peace and prosperity.” It felt wrong to say those words - peace and prosperity, when he is only able to see the opposite - but it is what he truly wished for his volcanic home.
I take a deep breath as Warden presses his lips to the side of my mouth, the kiss of a brother long beloved by my heart. I cannot decipher whether my words had any affect, positive or negative, but I know that Warden listened with his full attention. By the way he lends the full spirit of his self to the touch I know.
Though I want to push, to pry, to soothe, to fix, to find each and every wire and uncross it at the source -- but I resist. I cannot control Warden's response to my idealism. I can only hope and continue on my own path, though I hope to journey alongside him with great support and compassion nonetheless.
You make it sound so beautiful, Rhaegor. I wish I could see it for more than it is. Something clenches inside of me, the part that longs with such fervor to fix, mend, rectify; it clenches and I almost fall victim to its exhausting whims. A mirror expression befalls my face as the one which dresses Warden's, one of an internal struggle. But I manage to stay silent until Warden finishes his part.
I only hope that what I see will somehow aid me in the coming seasons and help me lead Tephra in a way that brings peace and prosperity.
You sound so much much like your father and your sister, I say, laughing with a gentle click-click-click.You have the gentle heart of a peacemaker. A caretaker. I might even go as far as saying a sanctuarian. And yet the times prevent you from realizing your dream of peace... For now. I smile a weary but perseverant smile. Stick around long enough and you will see that time come. You will make sure of it. I know you will.
And so we stand, enjoying each other's company. Whether more words come or not, I find myself contended; I may not be able to change the future, but as for right now? I can at least enjoy that.
![[Image: rhae]](https://66.media.tumblr.com/c013fae479a9e0c775688ff921306b4e/tumblr_pivbqpgHuG1xsr748o1_250.png)
