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 Posted: Mon Aug 26, 2013 5:51 pm
((Set in winter because I said so.)) In the cold of winter, the grey sky gave no light, and the sun behind the sullen clouds was sinking fast. Icicles hung from the black branches of the trees, and the wind blew through them, seeking out the thin patches of the pelt. All that was lifeless stone and metal froze and stung, while all that was organic hid from the onslaught of death. Not a beast-begotten sound could be heard but the hungry howling of the wind; not a shred of comfort could be found in the desolate woods. Finally, a sound, vivigenic, broke the austere sterility of the frigid landscape. Through the deep snow, a grey stallion stomped a path. He was great in size—larger than most stars—with golden wings tucked into the midnight blue of flared armor. His long, muscular tail swept out a path behind him; for behind him stumbled a foal, no bigger than a breath, her own wings held tight against her own body, her footsteps slowed by the bandages wrapped around skinny legs. Every so often, the stallion’s tail would pause in its path, rest against her cheek. She would nuzzle it, n** it, and they would continue on their path past trees that shredded the sky in anguish. The landscape was monochrome, black trees, white snow, grey sky. The ground was hard, the ground was icy; the ground was empty and slumbering. But there…peeking out of a snowbank…green. Not the pale green of new growth, but the parched green of late summer, jutting out of a ditch by the side of the road. The stallion stopped and stared; with the sight of that green, he left that world of ice and cold to a hot and humid plain under binary stars…  The blasts were getting closer; the accursed Autobots were drawing nearer. If he dared peek his head over the pile of rubble, he would be shot in the face. Instead, he drew his wings in close and waited for the all clear. All around him, the sound of shooting, explosions, rubble falling, metal flying, howls of the fighting, shrieks of the injured, moans of the dying. The ground was sticky with blood, hot, red, viscous, it covered Dreadwing’s hooves, drenched his coat. It was splattered on his face where he tasted it every time he licked his dried lips, coated his nose where he breathed it in until it seemed that the air had turned to molten copper. His heart pounded in his chest, hammered in his ears, spinning the noisome cacophony into an ear-drowning roar. His eyes were glued to the sky, where he hoped, he prayed, that the adrenaline rush in his heart was not only his own…
And down, suddenly, through the viscous clouds of smoke hanging above them, an achingly familiar silhouette dropped down into the trench beside him. Skyquake grinned like a maniac, nuzzling and head-butting his brother as Dreadwing did the same. “You imbecile!” Dreadwing snarled. He glared at his twin, but Skyquake only laughed.
“I’ve found the enemy supply dumps!” he cackled. “I will return after my report! Wait for me here.”
That was a long time ago. Snowflakes settled on Dreadwing’s cheek bones. Ice formed on his wings. The day was growing colder, the sky was growing darker, and a sharp little spike of green stuck out of a snowbank.
Late-summer green. Skyquake green. Skyquake, who had been dead now for two long years.
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Posted: Mon Aug 26, 2013 6:29 pm
 Mama had left him behind. When his legs could no longer carry him, and he was moving only by some strange urge in his veins, he collapsed to the side of the trees amongst the roots of a yew. There, he curled in a ball, nose tucked under one leg and shivering violently from the cold. His blood froze upon contact with the winter wind. There was no one around. He was all alone. Even the voices were muted, lost in the keening wind. Snow fell on him, covering him up. Good. Let it cover him up. Maybe if he was dead, she’d feel sorry. Maybe if he was dead, she’d realize how mean she’d been…
It was getting hard to think. Much easier to sleep. The deep, booming voice in his head murmured softly to him, like a lullaby. Completely encased in snow, he closed his eyes and said good night.
There was a scratching above his icy tomb. Something was there. Digging at the ceiling, scraping, clawing. Shivering once again, he untucked his head, opened his eyes, and blinked.
Standing above him was a massive grey stallion clad all in blue armor. He stood, imposing, brilliant red eyes framed in a golden face that was twisted into a look of—confusion? Judgment? The expression on the stallion’s face made the colt shiver all the more. At his shivering, the stallion’s face softened and he lowered his head to nuzzle the colt under the chin. “Little child, where are your kin?” he said. His voice was deep. So deep.
The colt didn’t return the nuzzle. Instead, he ducked his head away. “I don’t know,” he whispered.
The stallion took a step forward—such massive hooves!—and touched the plates of metal tied to the colt’s elbows. “Those are strange things,” he said. “What are they for?”
The colt wanted this stranger to go away. To leave him alone, to let him die—what could he possibly want with him? “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I’ve always had them.”
The stranger stood straight and looked him over, as if assessing him, evaluating him. “You get those from your father?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” the colt repeated. “I’ve always had them. Mama didn’t have them. So I guess?” He watched as the stallion sniffed at his wounds—he didn’t get close enough to touch the oozing substance, but he sniffed it all the same. Finally, he stood back straight once more.
“I…have reason to believe…that perhaps I am kin to you.”
The colt stared up at him, blinked once, blinked twice. He looked the stallion over again. No, his grey was different—it was darker, bluer. He had wings, he had a whip-like tail, he had no mane, he wore no silk. But underneath those wings… The colt looked down at himself. The flat pieces of metal tied to his shoulders looked just like the plates of metal attached just below the stranger’s wings. No wonder he’d been so interested in them. And that tail…it wasn’t the colt’s tail, but his sister had one, just like it. And his eyes…those were his sisters’ eyes, intense and red. Not as dark as his sisters’, but bright and full of vigor. Blue…his younger sister loved that shade of blue, and it was very nearly her grey on his coat…
His sisters. They were with the mean lady, the one who hated them all. She had wanted to abandon him straight from the start. She wanted him dead. He shivered again, but this time it wasn’t with cold.
Distracted, he didn’t notice the stallion turn around to wriggle his tail underneath the colt’s body. With a complicated acrobatic display, he used both wings and tail to put the colt on the stallion’s back. The foal squeaked with surprise, suddenly settled between massive shoulderblades (two pairs) and in amongst frosted armor. He trembled at the great height. He’d never been this high before. He could see everything from up here! He could see—
He could see a filly standing behind the stallion. She looked like the stallion—the same red eyes, the same gold-webbed wings, the same bald neck. She was looking up at the colt with wonderment in her eyes. Like him, she shivered in the cold, and when the stallion began moving again, his back a surging mass of warm muscle, she kept close to him.
“Hi!” she said breathlessly. “I’m Sandstrife! That’s my creator, Dreadwing! We’re looking for my uncle Skyquake. Maybe you’re related to him? ‘Tor says that Skyquake’s grey and he’s got green armor, and you’re grey and you’ve got green wings, see? Maybe you’re Skyquake’s creation! In which case, I’m really sorry, ‘cause ‘Tor says that Skyquake’s dead. That’s why we’re looking for him, ‘Tor wants to raise a cairn there for him. But hey, you’ve got us! And that’s what’s important, ‘cause we’re kin, and kin always, always, always look out for each other!”
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Posted: Mon Aug 26, 2013 6:33 pm
 Sandstrife huffed in annoyance when the boy didn’t answer. “Well! Rude!”
Dreadwing cast a glance over his shoulder. “He probably slumbers, Sandstrife. The temperature is frigid, and he was buried in snow.”
The filly frowned. “Is he going to be okay, ‘Tor?” She was herself very cold. Soon they would be stopping for the night, and she’d be snuggling up against her creator’s warm torso and under his wings. The boy was still exposed to the wind—would he be so warm up there?
“I can feel his heartbeat, if I concentrate,” Dreadwing replied. He touched Sandstrife once again with his tail.
She nuzzled it. “Are we kin, ‘Tor? I mean, the colt and us.”
Dreadwing sighed. “I do not know in my head. But in my spark, I know he is kin to us. Whether he is your cousin, or your cousin’s son, that I cannot answer. But he is surely some kin to my brother. Now follow close. It’s getting late.”
The filly nodded and kept close. The day grew darker. The family grew larger.
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