It was only natural to be hesitant when asked to plunge into the past of someone else. Likely, she'd lose all appetite for war after all she'd witness in the land he'd left behind, among the bodies that paved the road of his life. It was nothing short of a miracle that his mind was still intact. Some soldiers went insane from what they were put through - and maybe he was, too, but in a different way. He didn't sit in a corner, rocking back and forth. He didn't lash out and scream, or kill himself. No; he suffered in silence, withdrawing into himself and staring with sorrowful eyes at the world. What he had seen, made him so cautious, and afraid to hope. A part of him had wanted to bring Paladin down before he could attempt to create an equal empire, before they were all hurt by the inevitable failure. Even though he still had a hard time believing it could be true, he'd decided to stay loyal. Loyal. After all that loyalty had caused him, he was still fool enough to be it.



The faintest smiles curved across his features at the touch, something silver and bright loosening in the tight coils of his eyes. At her comment, he gave a dry laugh, more like a dog barking than anything else. Bring him back with her? More like, she had to barge in there and find him and drag him out. He swallowed, suddenly hesitating upon the brink of unraveling it all. It would be so much easier to just stand back again, turn his eyes away, and not look at the massive wave of hurt that bore down upon him. Drop by drop it edged its way into his heart and soul, and desperately, he wanted to avoid it. He knew that it would crush him, rip out his heart and feed on it while he stared, helpless and undone. Silverline ground his teeth together, watching a bluejay take flight into the pale sky. So beautiful; so simple. A sigh of frost curled from his nostrils into the sky, one last moment of fragile peace.



Shattered in an instant.



All it took was a tug of the mind, a sliver of memory drawn out from his heart. No need to think, no need to mold and add details - just one breath, one heartbeat, and his memory spread from horizon to horizon. Desperately he searched for the right place to start, scene after scene changing around them as he went through his past, as if turning the pages of a book. Snatches of conversation, faces, voices, screams and fields; it blurred around him sickeningly as he let the Dreamscape into his mind, giving body to those memories. The pair of them stood in the eye of the storm, the only place of calm, while his life spun around them. Eventually, the world steadied, and he gave a snort of laughter. Of all places to start...



The forest was unlike any he'd ever seen in Isilme. Thick and lush, the leaves let in only a small filtering of dappled sunlight, highlighting the spring ground in golden. It bordered on a vast field. The sky was blue and cloudless, the sun pleasantly warm - the air was still cool from the night. A thin mist hung across the field, dew glistening on every blade of grass. He gave a wry smile. Parts of the grass had been trampled, but otherwise, it looked healthy. "I'd almost forgotten what it looked like," he said in a low voice. "Before the war." It was such a drastic contrast, and he shuddered, turning to face his memory here. A youngster, just a little over a year old, stood at the forest's edge. Silver in color, with black clinging to his legs, dew wettening his feathers; black muzzle, black slashes across silver eyes. Upon his forehead, an obsidian horn pulsed cobalt. His younger self stared, wide-eyed, at a troop of soldiers that crossed the field. They looked regal, valiant, heroic - likely a flaw from his boy's memories. A rather sarcastic smile twisted his features. "I doubt they were as noble as I remember them - but for a young boy, they were heroes. I saw them, and I knew I wanted to be like them. Proud, brave, strong. Fighting for what was right, for our right to live." He tilted his head a little, giving Boudicca an apologetic glance.



"Sorry; you don't know where I am from. It is a land called Vanthra, once the prosperous kingdom you see here... But in the years before I was born, an outside foe threatened, and the land descended into war. We had to fight off the invasion. But then... No one knows when it happened, if there was any line dividing invasion from civil war. The fighting just went on, and in the end, we didn't know what we were fighting..." Bitterness laced his voice, but he shook his head and stepped out into the meadow. The shapes just moved past, nothing more than figments of his imagination, dreams given temporary form. He ground his teeth together, plowing a trail through the dewy grass. Subtly, the world shifted around them, and a Silverline that looked more like three years old walked beside them. The field had lost its luster, and was little more than a trampled battlefield, wet and soggy from the spring rains. His younger self seemed to not notice the mud, but kept going, a spring in his step. Off to join the army. He gave his head a small shake, fast-forwarding. The world slid out of focus, and when it came back again, and they were in a sort of war-camp. Silverline the Younger was standing in a queue, looking excited, his eyes wide and light.



"I was a little over three when I joined the Vanthran army," he said, voice sorrowful. His eyes landed on one of the soldiers handling the recruits. He was a little taller than the old Silverline, but built in a similar way. Graceful, but oh so powerful. His hide was the color of a storm, a dark dappled gray; his mane and tail thick charcoal, unruly and wild. He really looked as if someone had put a whirlwind through his hair. Despite his maroon eyes and a blood-like color that lined his eyes and ran down his cheek in three lines, he looked rather kind. A bit, well, stormy and wild, but kind all the same. From his forehead grew a rather thick black horn, ridged and laced with red. Tiny barbs adorned it all the way, ending in a triangular barb, much like an arrowhead. It was deadly, and his eyes landed on that point. To see him again - or rather, the memory of him again - it.. it felt so unreal. He wanted to run forth and throw himself against that brother of his, bury his muzzle in his thick mane, lean on him, hide behind him, speak with him. But it was nothing more than a memory. Sorrow gripped his heart with icy, merciless claws, and he traced the scars that littered Echelon's body. With a voice that was tight with sadness, hoarse, hinting at all the tears he had never been able to shed, he spoke. "Echelon. A couple of years older than me. He was handling us recruits..." The shadow of a memory turned, walked a couple of steps, clearly favoring one of his legs. A half-healed wound ran down the length of his thigh. Silverline remembered it only because it was the first time he had seen such a thing.



"He was on camp duty, because of that wound... Normally, he fought at the frontline. He was the spirit of the troops. But now, he was assigned the task of training us." Gods, I miss him...



He let the memories wash over them. Idle chatter with the other recruits. Watching the veterans come and go. Tracing their scars with his eyes. Exercise. Sparring. Then, one memory... They were sweaty and tired, dusty and a little bloody, after a day of sparring. Echelon had been relentless in their training that day, often smacking them and hounding them, drilling them, giving them no respite. "I'd been a bit angry with him," he admitted to Boudicca, watching his younger self's eyes trail Echelon. Annoyance, he read there. "He'd been hard on us, often laughing at us when we did wrong, giving us no respite despite our wounds. That was the first time he had done it to us, and part of me was upset. I had thought he was fair. All the talk of the veterans didn't help, either - laughing as they spoke of vile deeds." I just didn't know it was a way of distancing themselves. He shook his head, watching as Echelon rounded them up. His deep voice rang out across time, across the memories. "Alright lads and lasses, we might make soldiers of you one day after all, and make sure we're safe and sound, that all is good!" Playfully said, coming from a soldier that knew of war. Silverline, annoyed, had cried out; he'd been tired and upset. "The world can never be good and right, it is too vile!" Boyish voice, light and clear - it still was, when he wasn't so.. so tired. Echelon laughed at his comment, not an evil laugh, but a kindly one. Barely limping he'd made his way over to Silverline, his eyes merry. "The world is what you make it, little brother," he said, and tousled his forelock affectionately.



It changed again. He was in a troop now, a common soldier, and they were walking across a scenery that seemed a mockery of the first he'd shown her. The field might be clear of corpses, but it was nothing but a churned mess of earth, grass no longer to be found. The sky was darker, a haze lingering on the horizon. To their right lay an ocean, rolling against the shore with an ominous crash. The troop passed into a village of sorts, resting for a night with the population. They shared stories and news, their field medics took a look at any ailing civilians. One or two horses stayed in the background - their heads lacked horns. It was, in a sense, a peaceful memory.



For services rendered on the battlefield...



It changed, drastically; he hadn't meant to make it so sudden, but it was. Bodies clashed, warm and alive, skin rubbing against skin. Echelon's voice roared out across the mayhem, calling orders, defying the thunder. Lightning flashes lit a scene devoid of rain. They fought at the bottom of a mountain, horns cutting through flesh. Blood ran freely, but then... everything quieted. No, not everything; the thunder still roared, horses still screamed, but in Silverline's memory, it all faded. Echelon's voice had grown silent, for he lay unconscious on the ground. Horror had gripped him for a moment and it had nearly cost him his life. Order disintegrated, became chaos - without a steady voice of command, they'd lose. They were too green. With a fury springing to life in his bloodied horn, the world caught up as Silverline leaped into the fray once more. The commands rang out once more, but not in the deep voice of Echelon - but in a voice as light as trickling water, chiming and bright. It was a contradiction to everything a battlefield was. Silverline the Older gave a grunt. No point in making Boudicca endure hours of fighting.



The memory shifted, to him laying next to Echelon in a quickly erected camp. Sentries were all around. This had been meant as a border skirmish, nothing too heavy - yet they had been heavily outnumbered, and with Echelon as their only veteran... It was a miracle they had survived. It also meant that it was him they looked to for orders. Even though he kept an outwardly calm face, distress was written in the depths of his young eyes. All was calm; muted talk, no cries taken up. And at some point during the long night, he had begun to hum - to sing. His voice clear and light, snatches of words that were out of context, a tune. The more restless of the soldiers calmed, and eventually, Echelon awoke. He'd taken a bad hit on the head, but not enough to fracture his skull - just enough to send his brains into the abyss. Apparently, he'd found them again and come back.



They were stationed at that border for a long, long time - and they lost many friends. A promotion came to him for his actions during that first battle, and he found himself a Lieutenant. "I was promoted to Lieutenant while we were stationed at that border," he said quietly, wondering if she would understand his memories - or if he left too much out. "That first skirmish was ...awful. We lost many more after that, but held our ground. Echelon wasn't old, but he joked about retiring after I got my promotion. Said they didn't need him when they had me. We were stationed there for about a year, but the last season nothing happened. We were left without news, wondering if our foe had been vanquished. If we were free."



He looked up at the mountains. "We were wrong. We were more trapped than ever. We were recalled, but the land... it wasn't the same." And he showed her - bodies stacked high on the fields, rotting and decaying. Villagers drew away, their eyes witnessing of horrors. At places, the ground had been scorched, dry and barren. Thin, starved horses lay coughing, bleeding from sores, staggering towards them for help. It was never truly light anymore; a constant veil of red haze lay across the sky, darkening it. Dismay were upon the faces of those returning warriors.



"What follows," he said bitterly. "Is one great mystery. We came back to the headquarters, wondering what on earth was going on. It seems there were 'enemies' everywhere. In the villages. In the army. Among the rebels. Everywhere. I was promoted to Captain, the same rank that Echelon held. We were split, and I got my own troop, while he kept the one I'd fought with for over a year. It was just to swallow that bitterness, and move on. For half a year we fought imaginary foes. The emperor stared at everyone with suspicion. My troop tried to make it into the villages, spread calm, show that we cared - but they didn't trust me enough to follow. Disease was everywhere, and they.. they had a way of fleeing. Disappearing. Or doing bad things. I was angry, but I couldn't do anything. And the land - it became worse. The ground dried up, the sky became even darker. The ocean sometimes ran red with blood." He showed her, flashes of memory. "Then... I don't know what I'd done. But the emperor - he had grown suspicious of the previous General, Lionheart. Believe me, if there ever was a better General..." He shook his head; fragments of memories, Lionheart trying to protest.



Execution. He only let her see the long, smooth horn that plunged in between his ribs, and not what they did to his body after that. "In his stead, I was promoted. I cannot for the life of me understand why, but I was. I became the General of Vanthra's Royal Army. As if that wasn't enough, my role and the role of my bodyguards was warped into being the puppet of the Emperor. I don't know why I kept fighting for him, following his orders when there were orders, and when there wasn't, trying to help my people and going against his ideals." Silverline shook his head. ".. anyway, in my personal guard were placed those I knew and loved. Echelon among them, of course." He swallowed. "Some month before my promotion to General, the Emperor had released what we called the silver-smoke... They were Assassins. Short, fast, silver in color - with short, sharp horns. They had a habit of running out onto a battlefield and slash bodies open before you noticed it." He gave her a quick image of one of them, a flash of silver, and a body collapsing, guts spilling from its cut belly. "Nasty piece of work," he added. He was becoming detached.



"Look, Boudicca... After a couple of months, we knew things weren't as good as people tried to say they were. The emperor sent us on all sorts of harebrained quests." Snatches of memory; lying in wait for the enemy. Silverline's clear voice slipping into the camp, stilling the restless and easing pain with its simple beauty. Singing to calm them. Singing in battle. Watching the villagers; his personal guard trusted him enough to follow into the sick towns, to try and spread kindness where they had known only violation from soldiers. "And at some point in time, he decided he didn't like me. It wasn't uncommon for one of the silver-smoked to suddenly drop one of our own in the midst of a battle." A battle; bodies clashing again. He kept her from most of them, for they were boring, they were the same. Fragments of it slipped through, spinning around them, even though they remained in the eye of the storm. One of the horses next to him suddenly fell in a flash of silver. Overhead, a ball of fire arced across the sky. "It began to rain fire across the land. Great balls of it, leaving craters were they hit. Soon, Vanthra was covered in black smoke that never lifted. It was hell." He showed her. It wasn't a wildfire, it was just - hell. Constant hell. Black acrid smoke, the great stones of fire slamming into the ground with a shudder that could be felt miles away.



Back in the camp: his guard having a chat with another of the troops. Then, they left for the forest. "It was one of his favorite tricks to play on us," he said bitterly. "Telling us there was an enemy camp in the forest, and we had to eradicate it." Nightfall; the element of surprise. A massacre. "Only to find that dawn revealed the faces of friends." Sunlight; filtering in through trees. The faces of those dead were the faces of those they'd spoken with in the camp some nights before. The silence of horror. "We knew we were running on borrowed time..."



Twenty-one brave souls, gathered in a circle. Silverline's pale blue-tinted features strangely noble against the more robust build of his friends, and the darkness of Echelon. "There is no shame in running," one said - a solid dark bay with a white scar down his eye. "It is better some of us survive, to tell our tale." Murmured assent; Echelon pinning the young Silverline with his stare. "There is no point in dying for nothing. When the day comes, we must try to save ourselves. Better that one of us runs and survives, than all of us dies." Silverline, defeated, had nodded, his voice low. "We will fight until the end. We will not run until they force us to. For this land, we have to remain and do what we can." A bitter, proud smile covered his older self's face as he watched the memory of his soldiers agreeing. "They were a proud lot. Courageous, fearless, compassionate. Zawodnik - that was the one who spoke first. I think he was the only one who could make running sound noble." A fond, sad smile.



"There... are many strange parts of my story... Much fighting and misery I have left out, simply because it would go on for years. You know the gist of it. Brutal, horrible. It is extremely stressing to fight shadows, never knowing what it is that you're up against - if they're even real... And to know that your commander wishes to see you destroyed... It is no wonder I'm a bit broken. Boudicca, I.." He stared at them, a circle of soldiers frozen in time. And his heart broken again. He blinked the tears away. "We..."



He faltered, and the world changed. He was in a palace of sorts. The Emperor, a rather tall and purely white stallion, was speaking to him. Oh, he still shivered at the sight of those dark, dark eyes, and how they bore into his soul. There were no emotions there. Only cold and greed. Today, he was not the rambling, raving mad despot - today he was cold and calculating, taking satisfaction in revenge for a deed Silverline still didn't know what it was. "You're up to the North Barrier," he said, his voice laced with charming poison. Oh, he could sound so... so normal, but all his words dripped venom. "You have to break through to the Frontier." The General-Silverline gave his head a small shake. "The Frontier was a place of massacre. To get there, you had to pass a narrow pass, and that was a death trap. The pass was in the hands of the 'enemy', whoever they were. What our dear Emperor wanted was for me and my guard to get slaughtered on a pointless mission. We had no need for the Frontier - the North Barrier was all we needed," he explained bitterly. In the memory, he spoke. "My apologies, His Imperial Majesty - but I simply cannot. The pass leading to the Frontier is taken by the enemy, and frankly, there is no need to push for it. The Barrier is enough protection. It would be far wiser to take the foothills and conquer those guarding the pass, and then taking the Frontier."



"I knew I put his seal on the contracts for our deaths even before I said the words," he said quietly. "But to push for the Frontier? I'd never do it. I believed the silver-smoke would be a quicker, easier death. Once you're past the North Barrier, you can't really run away either. There's nowhere to go. The only way out of Vanthra without running into legions was through the eastern mountains, where you could pass them pretty much on any trail or through the terrain. All you needed to do was evade or kill the occasional patrols." His eyes darkened. "If we'd wanted to flee, we would've had to go off the roads. We wouldn't have made it. We couldn't set out on that mission to flee. It was a good plan as any, and to order my death as a traitor - well, it wasn't hard now that I'd willingly served my head on a plate."



He gathered his guard; they stared at him anxiously. "It's coming," was all he said - the flatness of his voice and the despair in his eyes conveyed everything. None of them faltered; they formed the circle again, shoulders rubbing against shoulders. If someone thought it looked odd, they didn't mention it. What could possibly be wrong with the General and his personal guard standing in a tight circle in the courtyard, rocking gently together to the sound of his clear voice, lamenting them? Tears pooled in his eyes at the memory, and he tried to tell her how brave they'd been their entire life, but his voice failed him.



His memory skipped to the next day - that horrible, wretched day. He saw it no longer as an onlooker, but rather as if his eyes moved right in front of them. He didn't recall it well enough to make it from another perspective. He bit his lip, wondering if Boudicca would understand that they saw it from his eyes. The occasional flare of blue ought to give it away, even as his eyes landed upon Echelon striding beside him. A tight line of worry was in the set of his muscles - by his lips, by his eyes. To the other side, Zawodnik kept looking in every direction. They knew it was coming, as they strode across a battlefield littered with corpses no one cared to take away, craters and ash and smoldering debris.



A ragged keening tore across the world, and the sky opened. Fire fell all around them and the ground split. In the chaos, he heard Echelon's voice echoing Zawodnik's; "RUN!"



All around him they ran and fell. He was just behind one of the mares when she suddenly fell, her still kicking legs getting tangled in her intestines. A flash of silver to his right; he veered left, through a sheet of flame that had sprang up. He cast about wildly, he thought he saw the shadow of his brother - but then it was gone, and the smell of death and the cries of his friends dying slit the final connection between sanity and mind. With a bestial roar he charged, ran; he saw Zawodnik fall to his right, cleared a body that he did not want to identify, and then he thundered away into the red night, his coat scorched and his mane still smoldering. Silverline let the memory close into oblivion, stranding them in a complete darkness.



"This is my soul," he whispered, allowing his emotions to seep through the cracks in the world. "Horror. Death. Betrayal. Guilt." He knew she would not see him clearly; only the slow pulse of his horn cast a blue light in the dark world. "You saw our pact. I remember it clearly. And yet, I have never been able to shake the guilt of running. I ran, and I did not stop, not turn, not look back until I was far away. I know not of their fate, and it tears me apart. What if I could've saved them? If I'd gone looking, maybe I would've found one of them, alive but hurt? But I didn't. I just ran. That is why I cannot stop looking over my shoulder. I keep hoping that one day, I'll see one of them there, coming up to find me after all these months when I have done nothing to find them, or nothing to deserve them finding me again. If I knew that they were dead - had seen them - it would've been easier..." He looked aside, taking the soft glow from her face. "I don't know why they let me escape. Part of me wishes they hadn't. That I had died with them."



And then he fell silent, in the compact darkness of his soul, lit only by the blue and the runes. Would she let them stay in this, or form a world of her own?