I THINK IT'S TIME THAT 
YOU CRAWL BACK HOME SON

Beneath the Solterran sun, a figure moved at an unsteady trot -- emaciated, with sweat gleaming over his heaving ribs, with makeshift saddlebags thrown across his haunches that he’d stolen from some poor Solterran’s porch on his way to the Oasis. He is a man on a mission, ears pinned back along his neck, teeth bared into a snarl with every step he takes -- he will fight his way through every guard in the Oasis, if he must, if that is required to get the supplies he and Sam will need in their flight to Delumine.

He had never thought he would be a refugee sent fleeing -- had always imagined he would die fighting, if that was what it took, his pride too stubborn to accept being run off -- except now he has something that is not himself to live for.

His hooves beat out Jet-sam, Jet-sam on the packed sand beneath him as he slows into a trot, eyes narrowed and mouth set into a harsh line when he faces his first obstacle -- a familiar man that he cannot place -- except that he can see the empty water packs slung across the man’s back, and it forces a harsh, rasping bark of laughter from his chest.

“I’m not here to fight you,” and oh, how strange it is that his blood does not sing for war, that he is merely exhausted at the thought of yet more violence. You don’t have time for this, the voice whispers to him, and for once he agrees -- he pivots, suddenly, so that his good eye can face towards the Oasis while still keeping Eik within his field of vision, and his hoof stomps the ground impatiently.

“Are you going to help, or are you going to get the fuck out of my way?”

I THINK IT'S TIME THAT 
YOU CRAWL BACK HOME SON

Between sand and stone they meet, two refugees with a singular goal, and oh, if that isn’t something unlikely in any other time and place. They are two opposite ends of the social sphere, the pariah and the (former) Emissary, but then again, he supposes they are not so different now -- both of them displaced by the dictator who had taken the throne, and, though he does not know this, both of them sent to the Oasis for a still-beating heart in another place.

He thinks of Sam on his knees in the desert, Sam with his voice breaking and exhaustion written on every line of his face -- of a younger Sam, breathless and wild as they had raced each other to the ruined Hospital where they had hidden away from Adriana’s wrath, where he’d postured and shrugged away the bruises and scrapes as just ‘training,’ where he’d lain awake throughout the night with his gaze trained on the vulture that had appeared, that Sam never appeared to see.

He knows, without a doubt, that he would kill to keep Sam safe -- that if he has to, he will fight his way to the very throne of Solterra, would go up against Raum himself, if it meant keeping Sam out of harm’s way.

May Solis have mercy on the souls of any who get in my way.

His shoulder twitches, the only sign of his distaste for following orders, but he will listen for now -- Eik’s plan is at least an actual plan, rather than just charging in and hoping he can get away in time.

“Right,” The word is clipped, short and sharp like a blade, and he dumps his own stolen saddlebags onto the sand after Eik before striding towards the first guard, hugging what meager cover he can find. Along the way, he picks up a decently sized chunk of rock, about the size of his own hoof, and his smile is grim when he realizes the guard seems to be dozing beneath the shade.

Foolish.

His teke is weak, but his throw still strikes true -- the rock wallops the guard in the back of the head, right between the ears, and the painted stallion is right there to catch the guard’s body and ease it to the earth.

(Unconscious? Lifeless? He doesn’t particularly care enough to check)

Task accomplished, he begins the short journey towards the third guard, sparing only the briefest glance to check on his companion’s progress.

“Speaking.”

I THINK IT'S TIME THAT 
YOU CRAWL BACK HOME SON

Perhaps it is the heat licking at his spine, the sun beating down endlessly, perhaps it is simply a trick of his own treacherous mind; as he approaches the third guard, her bay coat shifts to a painted golden color, to the shape of his mother before the fire had stolen away her original body. Around him, he no longer sees sand, but the castle walls of Zion filled with smoke and ash, can hear the crackling of the flames as they edge closer and closer to the room where he and his mother faced off against each other.

“Please, let me live…” Adriana had begged, too, and it only strengthens the hallucination’s hold on him. After everything she had done to him, every attempt she had made to ruin him -- how easily she had resorted to begging, how quickly she had realized the monster she had created and set loose upon herself. He remembers -- he remembers the crack of breaking bones, so that she couldn’t escape the flames, except she had, hadn’t she?

She had burned and she had been reborn, except here was his chance to do it properly, to make sure she wouldn’t come back to plague him ever again.

Every step towards the guard brings back another memory of his mother’s hatred, of every word she had ever sneered at him, every attempt she had made to break his spirit into one of her willing pawns; they flash through his mind and fuel his rage into an inferno until he finally shatters beneath the trauma. The piebald leaps forward with all of his weight, grasping at her throat and wrenching until he hears the tell-tale snap of her neck breaking, until he can taste blood on his tongue when his teeth tear into her aorta, and when he releases his grip the guard collapses onto the sands with a gurgling gasp.

Despite the heat, he begins to shake, fighting off the grip of the hallucination until the sands swim back into view. Above him, the vulture caws in delight, swooping down and beginning to feast on the corpse before him; his stomach turns, and he clenches his eyes tightly closed, turning away from the sight.

He is supposed to be learning how to be gentle.

He is supposed to be trying not to be a monster.

Perhaps that is what he will always be, deep inside.

“Speaking.”

I THINK IT'S TIME THAT 
YOU CRAWL BACK HOME SON

His sides heave, violent, and if there had been anything in his stomach he might have lost it upon the sands. Instead, bile burns at the back of his throat and makes his eye water, acidic against his tongue as he hacks it out upon the sands. He has killed before, had torched an entire kingdom, and yet his stomach still turns at the sight of the corpse before him.

He has always thought it a weakness, this aversion to killing things, but perhaps it could be a sign that he is not so much of the monster he might claim he is.

Or perhaps he is simply unable to do anything properly, even when he is doing what he is best at,

“I’m fine,” The words snap out with razer-sharp precision, so practiced he almost doesn’t realize he’s going to speak until the words have left his mouth. An admittance of his own weakness would be a fatal flaw, one that he’s built up an armor against; if nothing else, he’s certainly practiced in the art of pretending to be okay, pretending that his mind isn’t tearing itself apart each day.

The vulture laughs, and the sound claws at his ears. It knows, it knows the way he’s struggling even now to keep a solid grip on reality, every shake step forward threatening to send his mind hurtling back to Zion. “Don’t touch me,” The words snarl out, his teeth baring in a warning -- he doesn’t know what he might do, doesn’t know if he’d shatter apart beneath the comfort or if he would simply turn on the grey stallion as well, like the wild animal that he is.

He wishes he knew how to be something that wasn’t made of teeth and violence.

When he finally steps towards the Oasis, his legs are no longer shaking. He snatches up the saddlebags he had dropped onto the sands, retrieving the canteens from within and beginning to fill them, keeping a wary eye on the grey stallion. Would his companion realize that he is gathering supplies for two, not just one -- enough water to get two horses far away from Solterra and this wretched war?

“--Delumine.” He grunts out after a moment of pause, keeping his gaze firmly focused on the canteens as he arranges them within the saddlebags he drapes over his gaunt flanks. In his mind flashes an image of Sam’s face, and he lets out the breath he hasn’t been aware that he’s holding with it, some of the tension leaking out of his shoulders.

They’re not out of danger yet, but the hardest part is over.

“Speaking.”

I THINK IT'S TIME THAT 
YOU CRAWL BACK HOME SON

If Eik had brushed against his mind, he would have heard more than just the vulture’s laughter -- the chorus of voices in Zion still played like a broken record, the screams and the flames crackling, the way Adriana had begged for her life, looping over and over again in the background until the tobiano had learned to just tune out the constant noise, until it almost seemed normal to never have any sense of peace within his own mind.

He wasn’t entirely sure he would recognize peace when it came to him, if it ever did so. Did other people live with their ghosts constantly haunting them, hunting them, the knife of regret in their ribs and that howling laughter a soundtrack to their life?

“Sounds like a plan.” There is something wry in the way his lips curl upwards, almost the hint of a smile except for the way his teeth still flash a warning, in the way that he is always a cornered prey animal even when he is the one hunting. For a moment, he considers his companion, and something almost like brief sanity flashes across his eye, something hinting at clarity.

“Don’t fuckin’ die out there.”

It’s the closest he comes to camaraderie before he turns with sweat already beginning to gleam on his flanks, bursting into a hard gallop that would almost certainly tax him beneath the heat of the desert -- but it would be worth it, to return to Sam all the quicker, to get them both out of this hell-hole.

“Speaking.”