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The day casts a light pallor over the hunter's cloak. He strides with confidence through the Thistle Meadow and away from the anger that the mere sight of Archibald had stirred within him. Manhattan trails at his back, skipping forward quickly occasionally when she notices the tip of her tail resting outside her master's protective cloak. She doesn't bother to ask after her master's intentions in staying hidden like this for so long, but she is, and Knox knew this, free to question them. Was it really wise for him to isolate himself?
She knows he is struggling from the loss of his friend and does all she can to comfort him, but it is hopeless now. Knox is in some other place, some other mindset. He is focused on his scorn for his elder brother and his pain he feels in the absence of Aylin and, even some days, Roanne. I am hur, his Sentinel murmurs in his mind, but Knox knows it is pointless to think of that factual figment, that ghost made of memory, as his true father.
Roanne died many years ago, and he will never truly rise again. It is something Knox forces himself to face always, now, now that he has traveled far and seen so much and learned so much more. He is altogether changed, and he knows, as he lets the tall dried grasses brush his hocks, that the scenery is not the only thing that is different in the encounter.
The hunter is starting to feel the effects of hunger more drastically now. The surrounding grasses, tall, and though slightly stale still ripe for the picking, is hardly tempting however. He has dined for years on blood and heat and game of the hunt, and he fears he will not find that same satisfaction in any other sustenance.
Then again, the thought of blood on his lips again makes his stomach churn. Manhattan flashes an image in his face, the image of another in the distance grazing, and he stomps with irritation. Her temptation is not intended to be cruel, more persuasive, but he scolds her for not knowing better than to try and change his mind. Determined, Knox pressed onward and crushes the grass beneath the heavy weight of his hooves.
Knox intends to pass the elk-horned beast, but finds with surprise that their gait matches. The hunter walks alongside the heavy unicorn, protected from view and far enough away that the muffled sounds of his cloak won't burst in the stallion's ears, and moves across the field with his head low with exhaustion. He and Manhattan have, after all, been on the move for quite some time.
But when the pair draws closer and Knox lifts his head, his heart feels as if it is bursting. He loses control and shifts in a swift moment into Roanne the Sentinel.
Evangeline stands before the many-minded stallion, wide with pregnancy, beautiful and kind as she has always been. Knox can hardly see her through the blur in Roanne's vision, but she is there, and he remembers her image perfectly from when they first met and the split second before the shift.
Evuh....
She hasn't changed.
She is suh beautiful, but oldurr, and so heavy with chyuld.
Aylin was hers, you know this, sire.
And suh wull this new 'un be.
Knox feels a pain for having lost Aylin, a pain perhaps similar to the Sentinel's, but he knows Roanne's sorrow is so much deeper. To see a friend grow older, become a mother, and know you can never walk with them again, is a hurt far greater than Knox's unknowing. Knox longs to see Aylin again, but to see her and know he cannot be with her? That is something he knows he would not wish to bear. The words of the thick stallion fade into the background; everything becomes nothing, save for the golden mare and her companion at rest.
Knox asks the question a part of him has always longed to know:
Sentinel, did you love her?
And the dead king, the ghost of himself, stands still in the tall, dying grasses. The mind echoes a reply in nothing but silence, and Roanne the Sentinel slowly dips his head.
—
[[Whit, what kinda permissions does Knox have with Grimalkin? I know he has full with @[Evangeline] (and Linds, for when you join, what about @[Thor]?]].
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