He is quite sad, in there. Somewhere, nestled amongst his ribs, just beneath his heart, is a little dove. A mourning dove, of course - you knew it - and every day and every night that mourning dove sings its sad and quiet song. Coo-coo, coo, coo, coo… And it sings it through midday, dawn and dusk. Always there is a sad song in the nest below his heart. What could he do about it? He does not know. He would be free of it, but he deserves it. That, he knows. No one is more worthy of a mourning dove than a tyrant’s executioner (perhaps, except, the tyrant, who is incapable of mourning, we like to assume). Even the brief respite of bliss that is his love is not enough.
The dove is always singing.
Dawn, now, is where he is and the time it coos, soft and nestled amongst its feathers. El Rey is thinking of poetry, slipping between the morning shadows, and reciting different phrases to himself. He hears not the approach of another as he mutters, ”…Incarnadine sky - no. Ruby, crimson, sanguine…No, no. Feathers breach the wall of mist and I…I…”
@Sparrow ”in blood the blade, to its golden hilt, I’ll drown,“ I pledge you now, to death they all are bound,
The darkness is really all he knows now. Mending, healing, seclusion. Alba is all that stands between him and self-destruction, and Somnus does not know if he’s strong enough to come out on the other side of this.
Every breath is agony. His muscles scream from weakness and exposure. Every slow blink is pointless to clear the nothingness that is his vision. Well, that wasn’t entirely true; there are vague shapes that appear in the darkness of his unseeing, milky white eyes, tinted a muted green as a mockery of the striking verdant they used to be. The shapes are just that, vague silhouettes that sometimes appear when the lighting is just right, or he is close enough to whoever it might be, their edges blurry and unrecognizable. Shadows of grey and black are all he sees, and Somnus has never hated anything more, nor has he ever been so afraid.
Every step was made with trembling anticipation, with a meager confidence, as though one wrong move would send him falling down a crevice or off the side of a cliff. Alba remained with him through it all, a soothing balm to his worries, her keen, perceptive eyes catching every danger that lurked in the forests and shadows that he could no longer see.
Once, Somnus would have relished in the beauty of the Viride, but now the beauty was lost to him. It was gone, and his heart was heavy, for his vision was not the only thing he had lost in the recent passing months.
’A ledge, Somnus,’ came Alba’s warning gently in his ear, and immediately the dunalino froze in his steps, one hoof outstretched, trembling and raised as though terrified to lower it. Inch by inch he moved, blindly reaching out, letting his hoof scrape against the ground to find the dip in the earth that Alba had warned him about. Moving past it, he heaved a breath, sweat soaking his skin as fear crawled up his spine and settled in the very pit of him.
Useless. Bloody useless. That was all he was. Once a brilliant tactician turned King, now reduced to wandering and flailing through the woods of his home like a fool. Only one destination was in mind, but Somnus knew he would die trying to reach it. Veneror Peak was so very far, and while he had his wings, the stallion did not trust himself to use them. He’d break his own neck trying… But he had to get there somehow, even if it meant by foot.
At the shrine of Oriens, he would be safe. Salvation and prayer was what he needed, but the journey… Oh, the journey terrified him.
It was the voice of another that halted the dunalino in his tracks, the golden glisten of his side stained dark with sweat and dirt. How long had it been since he’d had a proper bath? Far too long, if he were being honest, but right now the monk’s golden ears were swiveling forward, searching desperately for the source of the voice that carried on the breeze through the once-familiar trees of the Viride.
Alba’s keen eyes searched as well, until they landed on an ambling figure slowly weaving their way through the forest. The owl let out a mighty, shrill screech, spreading her wings atop Somnus’ back to give warning to the stranger to stay away. The barn owl didn’t recognize him nor did she catch his scent, but she flapped the air with her large wings and began to pop and clack her beak at him in agitation.
’To your right, Somnus. A stranger.’
The stallion’s heart began to race in his chest and he froze stock still, wings tucked close to his side like a terrified dog might tuck their tail. “Who’s there?” He called out, forcing his voice to carry and fake confidence when really he felt nothing of the sort.
Oriens give me strength.
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"There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self."
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03-28-2020, 01:46 PM - This post was last modified: 03-28-2020, 01:50 PM by Somnus
He doesn’t see the golden man, (tarnished now), until he unwittingly stumbles through the brush, stopping short at the sound of a voice ahead. El Rey’s breathing quickens and he wonders if he has been recognized - is it time to go, finally? - before he sees that the one before him cannot. Mud and bruises and milk-white eyes mar what even he knows to have been someone godlike in prior years. Rey is hardly impressed by the owl, but supposes that she could render him blind just as easily. He stays where he is.
”I am a traveler,” he says, flatly, quietly. ”Nothing more. I mean no harm.” He does not step back to reassure the pair; an overwhelming self-assuredness and an oblivious nature keep him still and silent. They cannot harm him, and he will not harm them, so long as the situation does not require it.
@Somnus ”in blood the blade, to its golden hilt, I’ll drown,“
