to live and burn is
the most exquisite form of self destruction

There was an ache in Rade’s chest when he returned to the Lagoon— an hollowness that he sought to bury beneath an air of indifference. As much as it had hurt him to witness the wariness and mistrust in his friend’s eyes, he couldn’t let the other men see. What I did… I did it for you, the old roan had wanted to shout, to say, to whisper. Because while vengeance had given him the strength to rise up, only sentimentality had given him the will to seize the reins. Only the hope that he might spare the ruin of so many futures, that he might snatch souls from the brink of the darkness that had once claimed him. Don’t make me do this alone, he might have begged of Fearghas if such weakness had been permissible. If he had not unthinkingly brought a witness to such shame.

He didn’t want to. He couldn’t bear it, this loneliness that came with being elevated above the rest of his kind. The isolation that walked hand-in-hand with power. Power he hadn’t even wanted. Power he would have surrendered gladly, if not for the dubious consequences that might be born of such a decision. He had to protect them, to teach them what a true brotherhood was. Soon enough, he would need to act— but for now, there was nothing to do but wait for the path forward to reveal itself.

And so he stood alone, basking (drowning) in the sweet agony of his grief.

It was peaceful enough at the invisible line that marked the edges of the palomino’s home. Quiet, as the Savanna had been with no-one but he and Fearghas to fill it. But no sooner had Rade begun to enjoy this peace— to embrace the emptiness of his surroundings— than they were no longer devoid of life. A single call rang out from further east, from the coast where only days before he’d returned empty-handed with Chronos, and— And for a second, his heart fluttered with hope. For a second, he shuffled forward with light steps to meet its source, his permanent limp scarcely noticeable. For a second, he was certain that he’d heard his friend, that Fearghas was here.

Until the Boss’s gold eyes found the boy who stood in wait, and the surge of joy he’d felt came crashing down around him.

Lips twisting into a frown, the golden roan resumed his forward motion— though now his gait was stiff, one foreleg heavily favored. Unaware of the battle that had taken place before his ascension, Rade could only assume that this young stallion was here for a purpose of his own choosing. And— tilting his head to one side— he sought to unravel it. “You lost, kid?” He asked in a sultry hum that didn’t match his ragged, scar-covered appearance. Anyone who saw him would expect a harsh rasping voice; the snarling threats of any stallion who had survived a lifetime of struggle. But the aging stallion was not given to such meaningless violence.

Not since the impulsive years of his youth, anyway.

stallion . twenty-three . palomino roan . mustang mix . 15.1hh
debonaire x neassa