Force-claiming is not allowed here. This is a peaceful, neutral area meant for socialising.
| Kheldar for everything that rises must converge |
| Kheldar looks upon the stallion beside him, sees him as he saw him the very first time. Not the first time proper, when Rosto had foiled an attempt on his life. Ribs bruised, shoulder bloody, brought low, muddy-kneed, blinking up into the rain, catching sight of that elegant, ivory neck arched above him. He had never spoken of it aloud to anyone, not even Rosto, the very first time.
Not yet much more than a season old, and Kheldar was presented to the denizens of the great kingdom he was to one day inherit. Wide-eyed, gangly legs clumsily attempted to keep up with the movement of the guard unit that clustered about him on every side, what glimpses he caught through the gaps in the shielding bodies had the Princeling as much in awe of the land and its inhabitants as they were awed by the sight of him, so small, but representing so much. If he were to close his eyes even now, he’d still see it as clearly as he had that day, for with the frequency he reached for this memory, it would remain vibrant and unfazed for as long as he drew breath. There, where the canyon lands gave way to the wild and rugged steps at the easternmost border of his father’s domain, perched - in what young, sheltered Kheldar’s eyes had seemed impossibly high - on a narrow rocky shelf, overlooking the procession that he was the heart and soul of, the raven-hued colt had laid eyes on Rosto for the first time. Kheldar only learned his name later. But the stars themselves know this, for all the times the Crown Prince turned his face heavenward and silently told them of that day; of how the skinny wild boy who looked all flecked with snow had watched over him from above. Of how long before the People claimed him as their chosen leader, before he gained rulership of the shadowy underbelly of the kingdom they were both born into… He had been a Prince to Kheldar first, perched on a throne carved from ancient stone. "What troubles you so, Thief?" Kheldar had learned much, and he had seen much (and been spared from a great many things) in the years they had stood as they stood now, shoulder to shoulder. Better than anyone else, he could read Rosto as easily as he could the heavens, and discerned a certain dark shade having settled over his faithful companion. He’d learned long ago not to ask, not to try and pry out the truth that had been buried for a reason. It was not that Kheldar was blind by any means. There had been countless times when he’d caught sight of the shadowed edge of Rosto, who stood always as a bulwark at his back, protecting him from danger and enemy alike that Kheldar couldn’t see. Once, haunted by what he had seen, Kheldar had retreated, torn in heart, only to feel shame burning in his veins when later he had seen the wounds Rosto bore on his behalf. He had never pulled away again in such a manner, instead seeking for other ways to guide his focus away from the dark. "I care not for whether we find the Heart of the World, you know. As if such a thing can be possessed by a single soul." The Princeling scoffed, tossing his head (so that for the briefest of moments, that which lay near permanently hidden beneath the inky tangle of his forelock was made visible), in lieu of reaching out to jostle Rosto’s near shoulder. "We shall search for it, but when we return empty handed, I will weather my father’s wrath as I have done, and will do." The words were not a boast, nor were they filled with derision, as though he thought his father a great fool. (Kheldar, in fact, did certainly think this, but he would never so much as utter a hint of it.) "And for what it’s worth, I do not feel ready to claim his crown." The Princeling spoke his own truth, which in his eyes was simple, and in Rosto’s hearing only, safe enough to share openly. "There is nothing more I want." Finally, when his Captain had lifted his head with a mouth full of grass, eyes of blue keeping watch, Kheldar bowed to graze, ebony mouth lipping at a cluster of grass, pausing only once to murmur: "Nothing more I need." The thicker built of the two stallions was quiet for a considerable length of time then, watching and listening. Eyes scanning the treeline frequently, ambling about as he grazed in a haphazard sort of way to the eyes of a stranger, but it afforded him a chance to scour the whole area surreptitiously, so that he knew where he’d run to if there was no other course for them, and he’d pinpointed the area that posed greatest danger - where the cover was close enough to where they stood as a fighting pair, an attack launched from there would afford them the least time to prepare. But for now, the meadow was peaceful, and it was theirs. Kheldar, well satisfied with the grass in his belly, turned his gentled gaze skyward, watching for a moment the movement of the clouds. And then, one sooted ear swiveling toward Rosto in anticipation of an answer, attuned to the inflections and nuances of the painted stallion’s tones as he was. Kheldar softly asked, of the islands that seemed scattered off the shoreline on this one, the mother island; "What do you suppose we’ll find, if not the beating heart of the world?" |