Little dark age | Private | Iskalder and Lorian

give me time and give me space

Iskalder had never been so glad to see the sunset as he had of late, it brought a chance to escape for a precious few hours from the troubles and tribulations the sunrise would bring, once it reared it's flame wreathed head again.

The exodus had been nothing but one bad situation after the next. The wind howled and lashed exposed skin, pulled at coarse hair and tangled it into knots. Then came the cold, it assaulted delicate ears and stung at the corners of his eyes without remorse nor care. The slush and the mud threatened to suck them in and slow them to a crawl, forced to consider which way and that. Iskalder had never minded the elements much, growing up in a barren wasteland of a tundra instilled with a begrudging passivity toward it. Yet now....

One thing after another had brought Iskalder's down, his walls fractured, tapestries frayed and nerves on fire. He's on edge, dancing on the edge of his sword with a mouth full of razor blades. Another part of him simple wanted to lay down, lay down in the snow and say no more until something changed. Iskalder doesn't grieve, he doesn't stop to consider and process, he just marched, he fought, he spat and he snarled. Now that line of living simply isn't cutting it anymore, at least on the inside. On the outside he acted as he always had, for fear of acting any different would alarm those that he never wanted to worry about him. They had to get through this, and meet with the rest ofthe Clan to decide how they would continue. If they could continue.

The night in the cave is still fresh in his mind, the way the War Forged had begrudgingly sat side by side next to them, with a kirin no less! Right out of the tales his mother used to mutter to him as a child. Now that, if anything, was something to tell the rest of the Flanks when they made it. Something he would enjoy telling the twins, when they were old enough and had the attention for adults and their tales, and not in their games. They provided a lightness to the group that had been sourly absent, brought forward careful and tentative smiles as they frolicked and chattered with each and every one of them.

Though any lightness that had been gathered within him, had been quickly dismissed at the first sign of a cough uttered from Lorian's lips, veiled concern had lined his features as a brow quizzically rose. Before the surge of him overdoing everything had his like a storm from the mountains. He'd never been good at processing things, had never been good at compensating for things he lacked. Not in the usual way of giving even less, rather, Iskalder tended to overdo it.

He busied himself with getting the fire started, meticulous even down to the placement of the logs, while one eye remained critically on his partner. Lorian might have said it was just a cold, but still, Iskalder continued to fuss and flounder even if he held his tongue on the barrage of questions he wanted to ask. Once the fire was lit, and properly stoked — he retreated to Lorian's side to bask in the warmth. Not so subtle as he shifted to delve beneath the oversized polar bear cloak he'd insisted Lorian take. They were far enough away from the camp to have some much needed privacy. To let them be for the time being. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything else?" He asked carefully, leaning against Lorian's side as his head tilted a fraction to bump his muzzle tentatively against Lorian's cheek.

give me time and give me space

Iskalder never really stopped, to ponder how different his life might have been in comparison to others. Those that joined the Flanks, rather than having been born to it, not of his blood or loyal bannermen and women who had followed them into uncertainity. Those he'd slit the throats of and wiped his blade on their skin.

Or, rather, he simply couldn't care less.

He was a bitter stallion, soured and battered by the hurdles in life he'd faced simply by being a Flank. If he invited anymore unpleasant thoughts about those who lived on the rolling hills and valleys, compared his upbringing to theirs — there might not be much lightness in him left. There were more pressing things which required his attention, his energy and his drive. Being bitter, jealous and envious of those who still had their great ancestral halls and stories of a warm home weren't worth the time.

Lorian, however, was.

It's a sharp curve, to realize there is someone out there, that saw more in him. That wanted his affectionate, or — realistically, endure his attempts at it, as the stallion stumbled and warred with the reality of how emotionally starved he'd been. Someone who encouraged him to express himself, and his affection. For the first time in years, Iskalder felt nervous, anxious in his skin. It bubbled beneath his skin in the form of concern and doubt. Only eased when Lorian tilted into his touched and hummed his tune, abated for now in the wake of affection returned. "I'm too stubborn to get sick." He mused with a grin, his red eyes bright with the reflection of the fire. "And, it will take more than cold to knock me off my hooves." It came out softer, his attention having moved from his words to Lorian's head pressed against his own. His next breath is exhaled as a sigh, and he allowed his own eyes to half-lid, threatening to close completely as they watched the flames dance infront of them.

Thank you, for this.

The corner of his mouth twitched. "You don't have to thank me, I think we could both use the peace and quiet." There won't be much time for this, he thought, once they reach where the others have gathered. Whatever time they have now, he intended to grasp it, savor it. "What do you think of all this?" It's asked casually, as if it's just another day, but there's a weight behind it. The kind which had them out here in the wilderness in the first place.