Raglan
may the bridges i burn light the way
Last he had walked along scrubbed marble floors and peered through towering archways, there had been a different Sovereign sitting the Terrastellan throne. Raglan wracked his brain for the name of the woman he had never met in his short tenure as a Dusk Court citizen. Minutes passed as blackened hooves clacked faintly against the gleaming floors, and still he came up empty. While it did not surprise the stallion that he knew little of Dusk’s history, the Crow was admittedly a bit shocked at his almost pointed lack of interest in the kingdom at all.
Terrastella was no Denocte, no, but hadn’t that been the whole point of him returning to live here time and time again? Raglan had fled Denocte as both a land and as a concept, yet it seemed that the evening court could not quite grasp his heart. Maybe it was too gentle, this Kingdom made up of the breaths between the burning of Day and the cool embrace of Night; too forgiving and too kind for the boy who had wracked and whipped his own spine in payment for the betrayal he had showed his Motherland. Indeed, in a realm of healers and in the slow, timeless space before the warmth of the sun faded, one could easily expect to find absolution, forgiveness, grace for all of their transgressions.
Did he not deserve such things? It was a question the pegasus had asked himself over and over — out loud, as a shout and as a whisper, in the dark and in the light, beneath the peace of sleep and within the chaos of consciousness — yet, Raglan was no closer to finding such an answer. A large part of him was locked in a violent and yet soundless battle against such despair, arguing that the part of somber, angst-ridden male did not, and would never, suit him.
Drive on! This hidden piece of him bellowed, You are the last of Us, the torchbearer. You cannot live a life worth forgetting.
And yes, sometimes the voice struck a chord in him; he would raise his crowned head and throw his energy into discovering once again what it was to live in the present. Though when his energy was spent and the Night came calling, as it did every day, Raglan wilted and found himself once more trapped in the strangling vines of the past and all of the pain and regret it held.
The Silvertongue sighed, slowing to a stop as his hooves seemed to grow leaden beneath his body, and found himself standing in an empty parlor. The windows were thrown open to accommodate the late afternoon heat and gauzy drapes fluttered in a humid breeze. Raglan felt his legs carry him closer to one of the lovingly wrought windows, ears perking at the soft sound of birdcall and the music of some far off trickling fountain. Sunlight, lazy and burnished, glided languidly over Raglan’s skin like a syrup, filling the Crow with a soft silence that felt almost akin to peace.
He breathed deep, then let the air loose as a sigh, refusing to question or ponder why his past had decided to let him be for this moment. Indeed, the stallion may have been many things, but he wasn’t stupid enough to let true silence slip away.
"Talk"
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