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[fancypost bgcolor=; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: 400px;][justify][size=11pt][fancypost bgcolor=; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: 400px;][justify][size=10][just written to flesh out in my head where Mael is going, how he's going to change. no IC reply really necessary, there's not much to respond to, but OOC welcome.]
the stones beneath my feet are a path that serve to go
the stop signs on the street are walls that serve to slow
Behind him, the moors are an anchor tied around his neck, pulling tight around his throat until he wonders how he can breathe, let alone keep moving forward. The sun is barely rising, but its not quite light enough to make him feel at ease, despite having wanted to leave at this time. He's not supposed to leave WindClan unless he's going to one of their allies or neutrals with a message or gifts. He has neither, nothing, in point of fact, not even his backpack, and he shouldn't be going. Oh, that's not one of their rules, but it's a boundary he's set for himself to keep the restlessness at bay, to lock away the longing to pick up and run. Or maybe even that is another excuse. Maybe he's just afraid of what he'll find - of what will find him - if he ventures off the carefully beaten paths of his new life. The pack can't be dead; they're far too strong for that. Wave Leader is far too strong for that. So they're out there, and now Maelstrom is, too.
if wings could take me faster, then love I'd be home soon
but the road's a cruel master, that plays a slow paced tune
It's never occurred to Maelstrom before that he might be a coward. His fears - numerous and internalized until they sit under his skin like just another layer of muscle - always seemed reasonable, practical, unavoidable. He is weak. He is prone to failure. These are facts, and on their heels follow his fear of letting down his group, of overstepping himself, of angering those who never seem to anger, of falsely allowing others to believe that he can be anything more than he is. But more, and more, and more, he wonders how he can justify how he views anything. He can't imagine Padme ever showing any sort of violence towards him. Wintersoldier has never even reprimanded him for a mistake. Sam encourages him to meet her eyes, and even Cosmicpaw, for all that he is unnerving, hasn't made any move to punish him for his temerity. And what about everyone else? What about Noelani, who speaks so bold and unafraid? What about Redbird, who has settled so easily into the daily life of WindClan? If they do not need to duck their heads, to mind their words like a carefully cultivated garden, why should he?
the dust is thick and blinding and makes each city dim
the lane is long and winding, the horizon far and grim
His wing aches as he yanks it to his side, another spark added to a smoldering flame. He has healed so many since he's come to his position, failed to heal a few, but at least he's tried. Flare Healer didn't try to help him. She let him writhe in agony for days, weeks, only subsiding when his brother could infrequently manage to steal a bundle of poppy seeds from the stash. Was that right? Could he ever condone leaving a puppy in pain, even if it was Sam or someone else above him who had done it? He pictures Noelani beneath Sam's firm paw, her defiance crushed beneath the weight of fury and pain, and a violent shiver ripples across his lean frame. No. No. Even now, he couldn't stop his leader from doing it if she thought it was right, but Maelstrom would not - would never - allow a young one from WindClan to live his own existence. Not if he could help it. And besides, an errant thought murmurs, Sam would never do such a thing. She would never hurt any of us. That feels good to acknowledge, as obvious as it is, and the wolf's steps become lighter, quicker. He's no longer dawdling, though his crimson eyes quickly and constantly scan the area around him. He'll get to the city in a day or two, perhaps, and be back before anyone can worry.
if only I were agile, love, I'd be home before dark
but the load I carry is fragile, and the journey hard and stark
His long strides consume the ground beneath his feet, and Maelstrom thinks of the reason for his journey. He wants to visit Tidal's grave. Chartedstars' death has stirred something uneasy in him, served as a reminder that even forever can crumble away. He hopes the Twolegs haven't destroyed the quiet little corner of the park that serves as his brother's final resting place. The wolf doesn't know what he'll do if he goes all that way only to find a building sitting upon the spot. Go back, his practical side supposes, but he wants to talk to Tidal. Tell him that, finally and far too late, he thinks he's beginning to understand what his flesh and blood was trying to tell him so long ago. He'll need to apologize again, but the Atlas heavy guilt isn't on his shoulders anymore. Or at least, it's been reduced to something more manageable. Maelstrom was young, then. It was his fault that his brother died, but now Mael can forgive himself for the fear and hope that had led him to ask his brother to leave with him. He hopes, wherever he is, that Tidal will have forgiven him too.
the years are weighing stern on every stop I make
each choice has made me yearn for a path I did not take
Night catches up to him despite how fast he travels - it always does - and Maelstrom is quick to find a place to hide, a bush that opens up nicely at the center. He's not hungry - his travel herbs were good for that much, even if they tasted horrendous - but he might be in the morning. He's dreading it, a little, the thought of having to hunt for himself, but the wolf believes he'll manage. It's a different day than when he was by himself, moons ago, and if he doesn't get fat, hopefully he won't starve. As quickly as it comes the darkness slides by, and when dawn blinks its sleepy eyes, the Head Medic is already up and moving, pushing himself to keep up the steady run even he can manage for hours at a time. An empty feeling curls in his belly, but it isn't enough to be called pain just yet, and he ignores it in favor of covering more miles. He didn't sleep well - fragmented nightmares dogged his pawsteps - and he wants to outrun those, too, as well as the guilt that's beginning to seep into his mind. Should he have left a note? Or perhaps asked someone to come with him? For a while he'd considered requesting Wintersoldier's presence, or perhaps Percival, or some other fighting inclined individual, but with ScarClan breathing down their necks, it wouldn't have been right to make such a request. Besides, what if they'd said no? It was much easier to just avoid that possibility and slip out in the early morning when few WindClanners were up and about. Easier and better, even if they worried. As long as they didn't waste resources sending out a search party, or get injured when he'd selfishly decided to leave.
Yes, he can see that he's a coward now.
if I don't make it home soon, then love, please wait for me
but if you've met another then I hope they set you free
The city is not as he remembers it; it is worse. Infinitely worse. The Twolegs have made great strides in reclaiming it since they drove out WindClan, and he can only be grateful that once again night is beginning to fall; it gives him shadows to slip through, unnoticed and unobserved by the unnatural, awkward creatures pounding the pavement. A few times hoarse, indistinguishable cries rise up behind him, and during those pulse pounding moments Maelstrom runs without thought, his stammering heart setting the tempo for his sore paws as he careens around buildings and skids under dumpsters. He is never caught, and doesn't much care about anything beyond that, though he unknowingly leaves a trail of very confused Twolegs in his wake. By now the hunger has become just short of unbearable, and during one of his chases, having leaped into yet another dumpster, Maelstrom comes upon a rat and kills it quickly, remorselessly. He knows Sam feels badly about such things - he remembers when she found the tortured rat, before - but as the wolf quietly scarfs down his meal, he can't feel anything more than satisfaction. Half a year ago, he would have stared at the vermin, lunged at it too late, and probably been bitten for his troubles before it whisked away. Though he would never be great, perhaps not even good, at least he was getting better. Tidal always said he would.
the house is in my sight, I've made it there at last
the place has still got light, like it's stirring from my past
He remembers the park well, and the Twolegs have not changed it much. There is a little gravel path he stays away from, a few benches, some bottles that smell of alcohol, and somewhere just off the path some Twolegs fumble at each other for reasons he doesn't care about, but they haven't torn it down. Skirting the creatures that make far too much noise, the winged wolf pauses, now and then, remembering. He brought Oberyn here, to see the magnificent tree that still spreads its branches towards the sky in benediction. Once, a dance was held in the clearing, and Maelstrom watched those who had partners move together, and realized for the first time that he was missing something more than just respect in his life. He hosted a bonfire, too, and they told stories, and that was one of the first times as well that the canine thought of himself as part of WindClan, not one of their debtors. He did not love the city, had not been sad to go, but it had still been the first chapter in his story that he had been, for more than a few sentences, happy. A lump in his throat, made of nothing so tangible as sadness, but Maelstrom swallows the bittersweet taste away and continues until he finds it, his paws unerring in their projection towards the grave.
if I step into our home, love, I pray I'll see you smile
but if you only sigh it will still be worth each mile
Someone has been taking care of it. Looking at the handsome stone dotted with flowers, he thinks the Twolegs probably just find it attractive, aesthetically pleasing, but nonetheless he likes the thought of someone, anyone, spending at least some time by his brother's resting place. It has taken so long to get here - his paws ache, and perhaps are even bleeding, and his shoulders and hips and joints hurt from the effort of running - that for a long time the antlered wolf merely sits, drawing in deep breaths, his ears flicking to every little sound. The Twolegs have left and the park is quiet in the way only something alive can be quiet; the trees still whisper together, and there are other animals besides him in these slim woods, but everything is at rest. Peaceful. The sensation envelopes him, wraps around his chest until he can barely breathe through the smothering feeling of contentment. It is not wholly pleasant - he feels dull, almost, frozen - but the languid lethargy is not something to be impatiently shaken off, and besides, he is not entirely sure he wants to. He never feels this way. Not even with WindClan. There is always stress and hurt and fear, if not for himself than for others. Here, though, with his thoughts awash with the pastel memory of his brother, Maelstrom can rest. Eventually, after an indeterminate amount of time trickles away, the wolf's jaws slip open. "Brother," he breaths, a soft exhalation. And his brother answers.
the silence is a hole where no rest can be found
the tears are what I sold when my fears were tightly bound
"Mael. You're looking better." The voice comes from beside him, and when the Head Medic whirls, Tidal is... there. Translucent, difficult to see in the night, but the form of the other wolf seems to emit a light all its own, as though some few of the softer stars have fallen into him to cast a gentle glow. He seems transitory, fickle, but Maelstrom would recognize the huge canine anywhere. Suddenly he is standing, without remembering getting up, and his whisper rasps dry and tentative from his mouth.
"Tidal? Is this - are you really here?"
His brother - the vision of his brother - makes a rumbling sound that could have been a growl but Maelstrom knows is a laugh. It is the sound Tidal learned to make so their father wouldn't berate him for laughing with the weakest of his packmates. "Don't start that with me, brother. One or the other. You don't get to ask both."
The amused rebuke would have made Maelstrom stiffen and drop his head, if it had been coming from anyone else. But this is his wild, loving brother, and even if, at the back of his mind, Maelstrom thinks he's imagining things, he's willing to ignore that for now. "Sorry," he says instead, tossing his head. "The habit still catches me, sometimes."
"A lot of the time, I think." This time the voice is no longer amused but sad, and the Head Medic does drop his head, not in shame or subservience, but grief. Tidal is right. He cannot seem to shake the urge from his skull, no matter who tells him it will be alright, no matter who says it will be fine. There is still a bruise in his body, an injury far too deep for reason to reach, that proclaims that to say the wrong thing is to be hurt, to be brutalized, and so he dances around his words and hopes one of them will be a suitable offering to the gods and goddesses he casts himself upon.
The crystalline form of his brother moves closer, curls its larger frame around him. Maelstrom feels nothing physical, but still, the gesture is so remnant of Tidal that his breath catches and he closes his eyes. If this is the work of his mind, he has not been giving himself enough credit. When Tidal sighs, he can almost imagine he feels the air against his face.
"Mael, Mael, I'm sorry brother. Sorry for you and sorry for me. But it's time."
At that Maelstrom opens his eyes, wary confusion warring with the simple reassurance of Tidal's presence. "Time for what?"
"Time to let go."
Tidal drops away. The ground drops away. The world drops away. And Maelstrom is... somewhere else. Somewhere white and warm and formless. Slowly, like a flickering light uncertain if it has the power to stay on, a vision forms in the vast nothing.
if I had come home sooner, love, I wonder if you'd stay
but I was slow in coming, and now you've gone away.
He recognizes this vision. It's him - he thinks it must be him. For all that there are many unique creatures on this earth, he has never seen another wolf with his antlers, with his cobalt blue fur, his leathery wings, with his red eyes. This lupine figure has all of the above, and yet Maelstrom hesitates to be sure, staring unblinking as the figure moves. Because this... cannot be him. This wolf is seated next to a lioness with a scarf - close, offensively close, almost brushing her shoulder - and his head is high. There are others - another wolf with a rag wrapped around his eyes, a black hound, a dark wolfdog, a delicate Maine Coon - and when this figure's mouth moves, the others turn and listen. Not with utmost respect, not rigidly - he thinks the blind lupine is arguing, judging by the aggressive jut of his head - but they listen and nothing goes wrong. No offense is taken. So surely that cannot be him.
Think again, little brother. It's you. Rough, a vocal nudge that comes from everywhere and nowhere at once. It seems that Tidal is not quite gone. Quietly Maelstrom asks, Is that me? The future me?
Tidal gives a rather sad laugh. No. That's could be you. Might be you. And - if you don't mind me pushing my opinions - the should be you. I can't tell you the future, Mael. That's not one of my star-spangled powers. But I do know that this you... it looks good on you. If I had kept on kicking, I would have helped you be that.
A flash of guilt, a sudden rumble of thunder in the empty space. If I hadn't -
If a dragon hadn't sat on me, I'd be alive. You're right. I'm glad I can still finish your sentences. Mael... let it go. You're forgiven by the stars and by me. Face the facts - you know it wasn't you. And even if it was, it doesn't matter any more. Quit letting it hold you back. Quit letting who you used to be rule who you are. Be more.
If he had still had his body, Mael would have hung his head and stared at his paws. I don't know how, Tidal. I don't -
Tidal bulls over him. Do you want to?
The question churns in his mind, sends lightning bolts cascading through his head, illuminating thoughts and memories that prefer to stay in the darkness. Ideas he never confronts because confrontation only leads to pain and he's become a master at avoiding that. His father is wrong. He had been right to stand up to him. He loves Sam. Healing isn't a job, it's a passion, a pleasure. WindClan might not need him forever, but it needs him now. He could be worth something. He is worth something. Other people value him. His father is wrong. One thought grows in his head, swells and expands until it's a monumental shout that shakes everything, his core, his body, the ephemeral space around him. It shakes and shakes and shakes and Maelstrom abruptly realizes exactly what the words are. Yes. I want to be more.
this house is not a home, it's silent as a grave
the ghosts have come to roam, and memories don't save
As the sun creeps over the trees, casting uneven lines across his vivid pelt, the wolf awakes with a jerk. His heart is pounding, and his head is still filled with his simple declaration, an electric charge that makes him feel jolted and out of place. Tidal is gone. Maelstrom expected him to be. In that suspended world of white and nothing, they had said their I-love-yous. Their goodbyes. As he gets slowly, awkwardly to his feet, he faces the unshakable certainty that they will not see each other again for a long, long time, if ever. Part of him wants to believe this was a dream, born of his exhausting journey, but that would hurt too much. Seeing Tidal - seeing him at peace, forgiving and glad - was too good, and he hasn't changed enough to be willing to accept it might be false. He turns from the grave with the barest of regrets - now he will find his brother in the stars - and begins his lumbering way out of the park, out of the city, out of the past. His body is incredibly sore - this trip is going to be a long one - but for once Maelstrom has an absolute certainty to turn to. He has a shelter in whatever storms will come. He's going back to WindClan, and he's finally going home.
[font=trebuchet ms]if home is where the heart is, then love you've taken mine
but it's best I just keep moving, away from our old shrine
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SELF:
Maelstrom || Male || Heterosexual || Homoromantic || Head Medic of WindClan || Twenty Months Old || Born 09/03/2014
APPEARANCE:
Large cobalt blue wolf with red eyes, leathery black wings and antlers.
• accessories: green earring, black backpack with one strap.
• scars/injury: right wing joint heavily scarred / NA
PERSONALITY:
submissive. hierarchy oriented. respectful. nervous. intelligent. caring. duty bound. uncertain. imaginative. relentless. trusting. stoic. warm. self-involved. one track mind. traditional. protective.
• other: stutters around high positions or when stressed.
CONFRONTATION:
• Weak — Passive — Protective
• Never starts fights — Will defend kits/pups/etc
[color=#fff]• Attack in [color=blue]BLUE or [color=white]WHITE
[color=#fff]• Can powerplay harmless actions.
