It was back in a time when the lands of winter and harsh realities were all she knew, even before she sealed herself away in the camp of Jarl. She hadn't yet earned her title, the name she would wear proudly and shed the one given by parents who were never truly, unconditionally in love with her. There had always been reservations about her not being a colt--for she, the only child to take the throne as heir, would have to fight her way up tooth and nail to gain something that was simply handed to the boys. She was a girl, in the end, and that would be her only downfall.
Did he remember how she stood upon the throne after those years locked in a warrior's life; when she broke all the laws of their Court to become their first female heir? She had bested Hiemsterra's brightest soldier, withstood where he had fallen. She rose to take the crown after being passed off as nothing more than a pretty filly, a proper princess to follow in her nonexistent brother's shadow. Except it would be the brother that fell into hers once she left the lands of Veteris behind.
She knew him, of course, when she was Silanos. She might have seen him in passing as she wandered the Winter Court halls as a yearling, studying the names of all those related to their royal linage. Yet they'd never had a proper conversation, never spoke words to each other at all. They led different lives in the court; she didn't know anything about who he was.
And now he was there, there in her Dusk Court of Novus. But she was Rannveig now, and years had gone long since they saw each other. She recognized him easily at their meeting, basked in the sound of his voice for the first time. And once it split away, each going their own direction, she stayed behind and watched them go. Her heart pounded against the thickness of her ribcage at the sight of him, one from her own family of the Winter Court. And though they only knew one another as shadowy figures, she craved their interaction.
Before he could turn himself away from her at the conclusion of their gathering, she said but one word, one name, hoping he would stay back with her. "Morozko."
It was strange, standing in a foreign place, surrounded by those he didn’t know, listening to the woman who might have been his queen. There was something like deja vu about it, or a dream half-remembered; Morozko couldn’t shake the feeling as the others induced themselves and Rannveig spoke. The heat didn’t help, or the way the sunshine was lazy instead of harsh, a soft warmth over their little piece of the world.
But the unicorn has always been a good soldier, and dutifully pushed the thoughts away. The expression he wore was one of neutral interest, and he made out what he could of the relationships between the members of the Dusk Court, their standings with one another and their sovereign. It was easy enough - save for the paint stallion, whose ease around Rannveig spoke of a deeper relationship, they all interacted in the tentative way of recent acquaintances. What caught him was the warmth; there was an openness that was uncommon in Hiemsterra, where frost was not only a mark of the landscape but of the people.
He did not think his own would thaw, and as he watched the new sovereign he wondered if any part of winter still had a hold on her.
Morozko knew well of her warrior’s heart, how she trained and took what was not given. The stories had made the rounds during his own training, and of course you heard much, as a guardsman in the city. He wondered what her people knew of her - wondered, too, what such a fighter would do in a time of purported peace.
At the heart of it all, she was still a stranger to him, whether he saw her as Silanos or Rannveig, whether queen of Winter or Dusk.
A stranger whose voice shaping his name still made a small thrill run through him like the touch of a winter wind. For a moment their eyes met, cool silver and vivid green.
“Your grace,” he said, and moved smoothly into a bow, dipping his translucent horn until it nearly touched the ground. With the rainclouds gone, her shadow slanted before him, and as he rose his gaze swept from it back to her face. He wore the ghost of a smile when he added, “You’ve grown.”
She couldn't tell if she was as much the child as she was back in the Winter Court; was she still naive (had she ever been naive)? She certainly pulled the focus from herself and passed it on to those around her--those of her court--after her time in Jarl, but the doubt remained if she was best fit for the Dusk Court, a warrior in a lover's land. There was no one to say that she didn't belong there, but to lead its people was a different matter. She might have dreamed of better for Vespera's children before; could the daughter of winter prove herself worthy of dusk?
Rann watched with a pounding heart as the figure of Morozko lingered behind, dappled grey coat soaking in the newfound sun where hers threw the rays back into the sky. If any were hard-pressed to say that they were of the same Winter land, any had to simply watch their mannerisms; their features were similar, their bodies a solid mass to be used for whatever the situation called. When he turned and faced her, her exterior showed nothing that it hadn't already--a curiosity, the picture of someone who merely observed--despite the intensity of the blood pouring through her body. She waited for his reaction, the mutual recognition of each other, anything that said he remembered. The light in her eyes brightened at his words, at that statement of 'you've grown.' They stood looking at one another for some moments.
"We are family," the sentence slipped out with a slight smile, her own body folding into a bow to return his sign of respect, "You need not bow to me." They of similar size and stature were two bold figures to be held in the gaze of the Dusk tower, a meeting of the same frozen season.
She looked him over, ensuring his good health, before giving way to the only thing she could think about. "You left home." They weren't words of accusation or disapproval; instead they hinted toward an excitement blooming in her breast. She hadn't thought much of those of her home court also leaving the snow behind, as she had. There was nothing calling them to the lands of Novus, and they finally had the male heir they waited so long for. Questions of her brother were sure to soon follow, as with the state of Hiemsterra, but for the time she simply enjoyed the company of one she knew in her youth--a youth long put to rest behind her.
We are family, she says, and he does not suppress the small smile that grows on his dark lips then, even as they also shape a reply. “As you wish.” And so he looks her in the eye instead, the green of spring in the midst of a mare clothed in the colors of a snow-laden field on a half-moon night. Indeed, there was little mistaking what land had borne them, raised them, shaped them.
And yet. Would she be so quick to claim his relation, if she knew the reasons for which he’d come? It was family that tied them, true enough, but it was her brother who had sent him, her brother’s advisors who had bid him keep an eye on her. Nothing sinister, they’d assured him - there was no reason to expect trouble.
But the attack on autumn court from those of night was on all of their minds. Morozko had not asked - it had not been his place - but he did not doubt that some shadow of the reason he’d come could be found rooted in that situation. Novus was too far from Veteris for most to give it much mind; but it was too near to not worry about. That had been proven.
His thoughts do not show; still his smile lingers, her next words met with a nod. The unicorn could hear the hint of excitement there, and told himself he did not know her well enough to feel guilt.
“You set the example,” he says by way of reply, evading the question of why. “I don’t think it occurred as an option to most, until you left. You know how they are.” Stolid and proud and carved from tradition as though from ice - he did not need to tell her what many thought of her decision. She already knew what they thought of her victorious return from Jarl. They admired her, of course, and she had fairly won their respect - but the people of winter could only change so much at a time.
Yes, he was curious to see how she might embrace the Dusk court, and its subtlety and (in his eyes) softness.
Allowing his posture to relax, he glances around the courtyard, taking in the rising spires, the slanting sunlight of the late spring afternoon. This place had its own grandeur, but he wondered how often she compared it to Hiemsterra. “Your family is well,” he adds then, turning his silver eyes back on her. “They send their regards.”
