Today, like most days, he finds himself looking to the east.
He stands on the edge of that great grass-sea and thinks how the golden stalks waving at him in the wind look like the dunes shifting out in the Mors. And despite the sharp edge to the wind, and the loam-and-earth smell that clung to the forest, he can close his eyes and feel the heat against his skin, and the sting of sand pelting his face.
Even here, even when he stands in no-mans land and remembers the Court that lies behind him, even here the desert calls to him.
It had chased him in his dreams last night, the heat and the smoke and the cries of street vendors, and through it all a call that went deeper than words. And when he had awoken, he had lain awake and felt it echoing in his bones. And running beside it was an ache that ran deeper than blood, deeper than understanding, an ache that made his heart tremble and start to beat as if in reverse. He could feel the years slipping away from him, the travels and the worries and the constant, perilous what if’s that plagued him every time he looked at the trees. And by the time he reached the edge of Eluetheria he felt no longer like a king - but an orphan, begging in the streets of a desert that did not love him.
He had tried to tell himself over the years that he hated the desert, every time he heard that call whispering at him in a dream, roaring at him in the heat of summer, stalking him through the trees. He had told himself he hated it because he knew, oh he knew, that the desert and all of its people hated him, the flower-crowned, with his winged-hooves, and his eyes of hope that had looked at the skinny sides of his fellow orphans and promised to one day grow a garden big enough to feed them all. He was too soft for Solterra, and it had shown him that time and time again.
And yet, it calls to him.
And yet, he cannot bring himself to go to it.
Eluetheria is the furthest he gets most days, before the trees start to shudder and the flowers wrap against his ankles and beg don’t go, don’t leave us. And when they do his heart remembers what it means to move forward again, instead of backwards, and each beat reminds him that there was only death waiting for him in the desert, and that life was back in Delumine.
So he stands, and he stares, and he listens. And when he sees the cloaked figure moving through the grass, he steps forward at last.
The grass pats gently against his sides, foxtails and heads of wheat pricking his skin. And it’s reassuring, in a way, because it feels nothing like sand. There is only the earth, and wind, and the soft murmur of the prairie grass welcoming him back.
“Hello,” he says, and it is as much a greeting to the stranger as it is to the prairie, to the still-distant desert, to the sun. And when he lifts his head to meet the stranger's eyes, the ache starts to ease enough for him to breathe again.
He stands on the edge of that great grass-sea and thinks how the golden stalks waving at him in the wind look like the dunes shifting out in the Mors. And despite the sharp edge to the wind, and the loam-and-earth smell that clung to the forest, he can close his eyes and feel the heat against his skin, and the sting of sand pelting his face.
Even here, even when he stands in no-mans land and remembers the Court that lies behind him, even here the desert calls to him.
It had chased him in his dreams last night, the heat and the smoke and the cries of street vendors, and through it all a call that went deeper than words. And when he had awoken, he had lain awake and felt it echoing in his bones. And running beside it was an ache that ran deeper than blood, deeper than understanding, an ache that made his heart tremble and start to beat as if in reverse. He could feel the years slipping away from him, the travels and the worries and the constant, perilous what if’s that plagued him every time he looked at the trees. And by the time he reached the edge of Eluetheria he felt no longer like a king - but an orphan, begging in the streets of a desert that did not love him.
He had tried to tell himself over the years that he hated the desert, every time he heard that call whispering at him in a dream, roaring at him in the heat of summer, stalking him through the trees. He had told himself he hated it because he knew, oh he knew, that the desert and all of its people hated him, the flower-crowned, with his winged-hooves, and his eyes of hope that had looked at the skinny sides of his fellow orphans and promised to one day grow a garden big enough to feed them all. He was too soft for Solterra, and it had shown him that time and time again.
And yet, it calls to him.
And yet, he cannot bring himself to go to it.
Eluetheria is the furthest he gets most days, before the trees start to shudder and the flowers wrap against his ankles and beg don’t go, don’t leave us. And when they do his heart remembers what it means to move forward again, instead of backwards, and each beat reminds him that there was only death waiting for him in the desert, and that life was back in Delumine.
So he stands, and he stares, and he listens. And when he sees the cloaked figure moving through the grass, he steps forward at last.
The grass pats gently against his sides, foxtails and heads of wheat pricking his skin. And it’s reassuring, in a way, because it feels nothing like sand. There is only the earth, and wind, and the soft murmur of the prairie grass welcoming him back.
“Hello,” he says, and it is as much a greeting to the stranger as it is to the prairie, to the still-distant desert, to the sun. And when he lifts his head to meet the stranger's eyes, the ache starts to ease enough for him to breathe again.
@"avallac'h" !
”here am i!“
