the world has moved so fast, so without color or flavor, that he feels adrift. he does not recall feeling so before natu, before knowing and meeting her and selling his heart into her hands and holding onto to hope that she will give hers in exchange. before her appearance he had been able to see everything, miss nothing, live from tidbit to tidbit, fixate on matters of the here and now to drown out the way-back-whens.
of late she has totally turned that upside down. he has lost his intense focus, just as seamus had lost his quiet smirk or neirin his utterly pristine conduct or ifrit his mindlessness. all of them flaunting the new qualities they seem to have adopted.
women had always been the greatest threat to their bonds, bahamut had gone as far as to even hide his son and his grandson -- and the adopted ones too -- from the world of women by congregating only men and their accidental imprints into a pack. spartans, some said. they didn’t know the meaning of the word, fenrir thought. they did not train all their children in warfare. they did not subject mothers to stripped babes or to sacrifices for imperfections. they did nothing that was abnormal save retaining their loyalties for their brothers only and forsaking fate’s utter lack of propriety. spartans, fenrir would laugh to see someone say that to his father’s face if he was still alive. with one less eye and one less leg, the black dragon of moladion would still have taken their pride and fed it to them with their tails.
as it is, bahamut is in fact dead, fed into the soil after his mother had watched the meteor make ground -- after she watched bahamut become the literal “ground zero” rescuing his and his mate’s pups from mirovis.
he wanders now, freed of his brothers as he tries to discover more to distract him. his newest thing has become the fandangled rumor amongst moladion and his brother’s songs of healers and plants that had properties beyond just the benefit of forcing an upset stomach to rid spoiled meat or the ones that sent the mind off on tangents and visions.
oh, not that he wanted any of the fore or after, or had ever tried them, but he is made curious nevertheless. and according to said brother, the best place to find any herbs was in the forest or field. swamp had its benefits and mountains had it’s plusses -- even the desert badlands and terribly salty shores -- but they were too easily picked clean. especially with the packs, rendering taviora and asteraia equally as impossible to find good amounts. he has already compiled what was supposedly a poultice for ill sleepers needing relief.
it is then that he hears the change in the quality of the space around him, the approach and attention of someone keenly aimed at his person. it makes his ears adjust to face her just before his own eyes and face turn in turn. that is when the scent of mountain thistle and pine-grown-on-stone fills the space between them and his pale-as-death green eyes show a fragment more life. “Fenrir,” she calls to him and that fragment becomes deeper, more felt of the heart than simply in the mind. she is the moonlight to his night. she is moon mother’s own daughter, blood of blood and flesh of flesh. “natu, you look well.” he says with his quiet sort of voice, the timbre unmoved from the subtle hope and timid joy that had been the way he spoke the last time.
“i hope you are not affronted by that visit i made to your queen… it seems i only served to rub salt in some old biases… if i have made your home uncomfortable, i do apologize… i only wished your home to also possess the aid of my brothers and i if the worst should ever be at your doorstep...”
FENRIR
the dragonborn ; of scotavia
male | 17 years | 37 inches | 150 pounds
tactician of the fantastic four | fond of natu
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