You must have had quite the journey.
He smiled.
It seemed so long ago when the Brotherhood first found him. Or rather, more accurately, Mitz had found them. Stumbled upon their camp, in fact, not unlike his current situation—running himself ragged and blind through the trees, not particularly caring about what lay ahead as long as he left the pursuers, dogged as hounds, in the dust. In this case, the pursuers were no more than memories of the pasts—ghosts. Pathetic, really. But now that he thought about his encounter with the renegade band, he must have looked pretty pathetic in the Brotherhood's neck of the woods as well.
Honestly. Apples, of all things! Why couldn't he have been stealing away something valuable like gold and jewels, or even rescuing a damsel in distress?
The Brotherhood resided deep within a thick green forest, sprawling as far as the eye could see. And in the tangled depths of this forest, an apple orchard thrived (but no damsels in distress were to be found). It was there, amid the winding maze of century-old sweet, blossoming trees that the camp lay hidden like a forgotten treasure chest, rusted and nearly swept away by the sands of time. With his cheeks flushed with the thrill of the chase (idiot that he was, he enjoyed the chase far too much to use his super speed) and his satchel brimful of apples, ripe and swollen as a full moon, they nabbed him and tossed in the river like he weighed no more than the sack of apples around his neck.
He smiled at the memory now, recalling the Brothers gathered at the river bank and positively roaring with laughter and hooting raucously. Surely he must have looked something of a fool! A sodden boy bobbing along with the ducks and the apples, spluttering threats and hollering more curses than any decent young boy ought to know. It was a wonder that they hadn't roasted him alive and made a horse-and-apple kabob out of him. Instead, they'd taken their spluttering little duckling under their wing, given him a name (Blue Duck was better than Apple Dumpling, by all measures), and taught him horrifying curses and raunchy jokes that made even his ears turn pink.
It made him wonder why he ever left.
"You have no idea," he admitted to Lena, his lips forming a sly grin. He preferred to think she referred to the journey that his name belonged to, rather than the journey of fleeing on the wings of time and seasons to end up here in the middle of some forest, alone, shaking like a leaf in front of a majestic man with majestic hair and a sweet girl with sweet eyes, looking like a half-starved puppy. He thought he might die of humiliation. But surely Lena preferred happy stories with happy endings? He certainly did, however childish it might be. He didn't want stories about heroes and glory and war. There were no heroes in war, he'd learned, only soldiers—some that bled more than others. And glory was nothing more than paint used to sweep over all the blood and stains, a beautifully crafted lie to make the canvas of war and carnage to resemble a glorious masterpiece. Yes, sometimes it was best if you simply left out all the bad things. Not that the bad things went away—not completely, anyway. But they did for a time, and that was all that he needed.
A kitsune. He needed one of those, too, preferably one with three tails instead of five. He wouldn't necessarily name it Imogen, either. Maybe he'd name it Apple Dumpling. Lena would laugh, probably, but he wouldn't mind. He would laugh, too. It was all a very grand idea, in his mind, but in his heart he knew he was a foolish boy who thought foolish ideas grand ones. He grinned as the fox-like creature bopped him on the nose, causing him to sneeze. The sound was like an avalanche exploding through a silent grave yard. Several birds took flight. He snorted, attempting to hold in his laughter, but suddenly, Lena wasn't laughing anymore, and the pale stallion clearly did not find him half so amusing, either. His eyes were cold as the kiss of any steel armor d'Aramtiz had ever worn, and Lena's bold doe eyes grew dark and serious; the laughter that had bubbled from her throat like sweet spring water died on her tongue. Her tone was gentle and supple as silk as she reassured him that they did not doubt his strength. Inwardly, he sighed. His body was not like theirs—it did not perish so easily as most, but nor could it completely resist the onslaught of winter (if they could even call this mild weather winter).
Where I come from, it is always winter.
At their insistence and to satisfy whatever worries plagued them, he nodded, agreeing to the stallion's proposal. Already, he was growing restless and fidgety, his attention fluttering here and there, quicker than the thrum of hummingbird wings. He needed to move, he needed to run. But more than he yearned to take flight again, his body required a proper cool-down before the frigid air chilled his damp sweat into a sleek sheet of ice across his cooling skin. He was grounded, by his own stupidity. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Before they continued on whatever journey they were to take together, he drank slowly from the stream, but did not allow himself as much as he wished.
As they walked, the forest was as somber and silent as the pale stallion, and just as breathtaking and windswept. He watched Imogen swirl through the snow like a winter pixie, following her graceful flurry along the ice absentmindedly. "Where are you taking me?" he asked quietly, as the three padded throughout he snow together. Surely the cold-eyed stallion did not think him stupid and blind? But suddenly, it didn't matter where they were taking him.
Anywhere but here.
(( we can continue here, or wherever you guys would prefer <3 ))
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