ORIGIN - there'll be something waiting

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Here was a tender sight among the ruins—sweetgrasses purled out from the worn bricks, roots serving as supports for the carpeting mosses and vines. Chips and scrapes were occupied by carefree buds. Lamb's ear ensconced whatever space was not taken up by any other manner of tender shoots. A calloused pad brushed over the delicate edge of one. A soft hum came at the end of the motion, and then the sound of shuffling feet.

Mercy carried himself towards the side, half-circling the midnight-blue ruin and its guests. His tail flicked from one side to the other, moonlit gaze settling on them: two chrysalises, set like lifelong companions formed by the frigid burn of tragedy. Subconsciously, his mind swarmed with unformed tales and stories—but, he already knew where these stones had come from.

The old storyteller had never quite encountered many of Pride's fellows, and certainly not the two that stood revived before him, cloudy and fiery at once. But, the same as any manner of Gembound to walk these caves, they should be honored. His dear (hah) friend had asked him just to come and start a garden for the coming children. Mercy was not one to do things in halves.

So, out he reached, with a paw splayed wide. The pads made contact with the clinohumite's cool base, but nothing but weariness came.

Such was magical expenditure.

He could lay flowers at their cradles later.

Instead, Mercy lifted his snout to the air and let out a loose bellow, "Pride?" (Surely, the stag was somewhere nearby?) He made a point to sit off to the side, so that his companion could have the best view of his new garden. Hopefully it's up to snuff, the lion thought amusedly, grinning just slightly to himself before returning to scanning the ruins.
@Pride

His head came up, ears pricking. Was that Mercurius? he wondered, and began a swift stride toward the voice. It was a little distant--he'd been grazing on the sparse grasses nearer the ruins, rather than guarding the space by the Throne where he'd laid the gemstones.

The click of his hooves was fast approaching. He couldn't see Mercurius; but there were patches of green that hadn't been there before. It was a bit too far off to inspect, just yet. "Mercy?" Pride called, unsure, as he approached. He was just getting a good look at the new garden, as he neared, eyes widening, when a small white shape shot past him in a blur. "Ooh, that's--MISCHIEF, NO-" He broke into a clattering run after the hare, a grimace crossing his features--but she reached it first, plowing into it and rolling over and over in the lamb's ear. In a heartbeat she was nibbling at this leaf, then that, Pride rushing up--slowing to a trot--as he scolded her. "This is not for eating! Mischief, put that down!"

His cry was one of protest, of exasperation, and each time he tried to nose the hare from this tuft of foliage or that, she darted to another one. There was, indeed, mischief in her eyes, and after a moment of failing to intercept her, Pride threw his head back with a sigh.

She wasn't doing much damage to it, in any case. The new garden was... well, Mercy had outdone himself; the carpet of green was pleasantly overgrown, tall in some places and then laying flat, perfectly ensconcing the two chrysalises that lay in the center.

He looked up and around, spotting the white lion--"This is beautiful, Mercurius. And hello. I... apologize for my familiar," he added, dourly, overly formal in his reference to her as if to add a little more sour humor to it.

@Mercurius

Pride was swift, but a mischief-fueled rabbit was far quicker—moonlit eyes set right upon her form. Inky lips pulled up into a broad smile; he couldn't help but laugh. Sure, he was enabling the little thing, but she was just such a comedic darling. Her bonded was making many futile attempts to dissuade her, but—"ah, but you are the one who named her Mischief." Mercurius chuckled breathily. "Self-fulfilling prophecies, and all that."

With all the air of a grandfather letting his spoiled granddaughter do as she pleased, he leaned down and murmured, "you can have whatever you'd like from here." Tail-tassel flicking, Mercy looked up and away from Mischief, "I can always grow it again."

Amused at the stag's expense, the old lion stood up and padded forward. Bumping his nose into a pale shoulder, he hummed, "hello, Pride." His head tipped upwards, meeting Pride's gaze. Moonstone horns glimmered while he broke away, padded closer to the chrysalises. "I know we spoke the other day, but it does always seem like it's been forever since we last spoke," Mercy murmured.

Eridanus was quiet, these days. It's fortunate, he thought.

"How have you been, dear friend?" He glanced not-so-subtly between Pride and the two stones, a persistent quirk in his brows. As always, he was warm—and not so persistently prying. If the stag did not wish to speak on it, or just wanted to admit that he was fine, then that was quite alright. They could find other things to talk about, as they always did.

Slowly, the beast set onto his haunches, a sharp, wincing whistle blowing out from his teeth. Ah, too fast. His muscles ceased in their aching moments later, but the gently-growing headache remained.
@Pride

The hare gave no real sign of understanding--she likely didn't--but she did rear up to aim a fiercely playful bop at Mercurius's nose. Then she spun, dashing a brief circle before diving into the greenery. Pride eyed her with dry exasperation. "You're encouraging her," he gently accused, amused. "And I named her that because it's fitting. She's trouble," he added, but there was fondness in it.

He came closer, reaching to meet the greeting with a nudge and a bump of his own. A soft huff of a laugh escaped him. "Oh, you know. Busy, busy, no time for lion around, unlike some," and he glanced at Mercy, "-if we're still doing the dear puns." Again, amusement, good nature, and he reflected that though they did indeed see one another often enough, it was still always pleasant. Always, somehow, a relief.

But Mercy's question was still--despite the pun, intentional or not--a solemn one, and Pride turned to come up alongside him, nodding down at the stones. "I am... thinking, a lot. Nassir was good to me, and Fireheart was strong. I've no idea what the children will be like. I-..." He inhaled sharply, holding it, eyeing the stones as he found his words. "-fear not doing them justice. I hope that I do. ...I wish I knew more about how this worked, Mercurius. Whether they ever keep their memories. If who was lost, is truly lost. What rebirth is." He shook his head, and looked then to the white lion, silent for a beat.

He studied him.

He was thinking, as silver eyes traced soft, feline features, that he had taken Nassir somewhat for granted. The leopard had been one of the few to ask how he was doing, to look after him, and Pride hadn't quite given him enough support, in turn. It was a reminder, a mistake he wouldn't repeat. "And you-? How are your joints, and--the rest of you?" His question was a gentle one, as equally careful as Mercurius's had been, the slight upward tilt of his chin an invitation rather than a demand.

@Mercurius

Mercy gave the hare the benefit of a playful grunt and flinch, before laughing fondly; of course she did not understand, but she was companionable nonetheless.

Away she went into the greenery—if the lion had the magical wherewithal left, he would've sent up yet more plants in her wake. She'd have to be content with what was available, and live up to her Pride-given name. "Perhaps that could be her surname, Trouble," (useless as last names tended to be) "Mischief Trouble has quite the ring to it." Without a single ounce of shame, the old lion chuckled at his own joke.

Then, again, he laughed—"ah, I've missed our puns." Just as if they didn't bump elbows every other week. In any case: "The usual, then." Moonset eyes creased upward, a smirk playing along his lips, "no room for rest on the timetables?" Amusement at the expense of a losing battle, it was. Unless all four legs were bolted to the floor, Pride would keel over before passing on all his duties. These little meetings were the best Mercy was willing to do, pacifistic and nonconfrontational as he was.

The old lion tacked on a little joke, "at least there's time to tend to old me."

Of course, these little meetings were not for him. A sympathetic sort of frown twisted his snout after the fact. The mood had not soured, but indeed sobered—Pride spoke, and Mercy did little but listen and press his flank against the stag's own. Was there a quiver, there... ? The pale thing stopped with a sharp breath, and Mercy made sure to lap at the stag's shoulder in assurance.

For as long as the old lion had known Pride, he'd known that the cervid hoisted the world upon his shoulders; he was aloof and cold, at times, but warm, kind, gentle—he cared so much for the safety of others, and used his might for that. Mercy loved him for that.

It hurt to see him in mourning, as much as it was a fact of life—as unusual as death was for Gembound.

A sore muscle twitched, but the pale beast was unperturbed in his shuffling to look his beloved friend in the eye and murmur, "perfection and doing things just right is overrated; but, there is no better person to do them justice than you, Pride." Another warm smile was directed upwards. "Whatever comes of their stones will love and protect as you do. If they do not keep their memories, they have you to teach them, to remind them."

Sigh, wistful and warm. "All of you will be well."

I promise, his conscience hummed, ... I promise. It whirled, pivoting on some strange sort of axis. I could... His gaze tore away from Pride or any chrysalises for just a moment, staring up at Orion's glimmering ceilings and rock formations. All the stars, stunning and darling.

Maybe... he could learn to live here again, call it a home.

One thing at a time. Don't get too far ahead— Pride was returning the favor, and it would be rude not to respond.

Mercy coiled his tail about himself, shifting weight in a halfhearted show of mobility. "As well as usual, I suppose." Inky lips twisted in a lopsided smile. "I've been going for walks on the daily. Keeping them moving, when nobody's been by." The latter part was said casually; the solitude of the grove had been rather lonely, but... all Mercy needed was the company of his family.

Even if—as he haltingly realized—that family really only amounted to Pride. One of their sons, Azizos, had returned from Polaris after weeks of absence; his fawn-cub had been unable to stifle his whimpers as he pressed against Mercy's chest. (The Spire, he'd said, tried to kill him.) Days later, he went into a chrysalis, nestled into the walls or the grove.

Bite the bullet, then: Mercy spoke in that soft voice of his, moonlit eyes looking through pale eyelashes, "might I ask you something, Pride?"
@Pride

'No room for rest on the timetables?'

A wry glance at the white lion said enough, but Pride followed it up regardless. "Truth be told I've very little to do, these days. Most of them come and go and are more 'gone' than here. Some come with their troubles, from time to time--with questions I try to help with. But mostly it is... empty." And it was. The "Seven" had rarely amounted to seven; the number had never been meant as a member count, in any case. Old history, that.

And Mercurius's reassurances. Justice. Now there is a complicated word. The assurance that the children would be reminded of their values was more heartrending than truly reassuring. He knew Mercy didn't mean it that way--but there was something in the soft promise that they'd be okay "again" that implied that what had been, was truly lost.

He had to fight down the grief. The lion's closeness (his touch) helped; it felt as though there were someone there, someone truly there, for him. With him. As though the constant alone-ness--even when close to, even when speaking to others--was, with Mercurius, dispelled. They were bonded; one way or another, they were bonded.

On Mercurius went, though: and Pride's personal question was answered, and the white stag paid close and sympathetic attention.

"Movement is good. If it ever gets too bad--the pain--I can help you, you know. The magic Tenzin taught--I think it could relieve it. I could try it-? But it is exhausting, afterward, so if you had plans..." He smirked, gently.

Ahh, but it was time for something serious, it seemed. Something--soft? Something worrying, given Mercurius's steady, gentle gaze. This sort of expression never wound into a "so did you notice that one plant," or "weird wind yesterday, huh" sort of conversation. No, this was about to be something serious, and Pride took a breath, a little worry trickling through him.

"Of course you can; what is it?" he asked.

@Mercy

It's quiet uptown.

The pale beast shifted his weight to either paw with a sigh, "would you say that's a good thing? The quietness?" Moonlit eyes blinked slowly, adjusting as he moved to regard Pride; "or... would you call it emptiness?" Mercurius meant no harm by it—or his prior statement of justice and doing well—but he had to know: does home feel more like a house?

Pain relief gently shrugged aside with a nod, the storyteller swallowed. "Eridanus does not have that... liveliness it did, not anymore." Did Pride know that "Azizos is sleeping once again; he is in the garden, this time. I'd like to keep it clean, remind him that I'm still there—for when he wakes up, but..."

Mercy choked down a strange wave of guilt, tail wavering behind him, now. The Beast of many cycles ago had called this place home despite the odds. Hooves might have struck his ribs until they neared breaking, teeth chipping and scraping against bark until they went dull, but he still regarded it as home. A different white deer had made it home before. I miss her, his thoughts whimpered, not for the first time.

"I think that I would like to start a garden here—for your children, for your Seven." His voice faltered somewhat, and he cleared his throat, "I think that I would like to be here, with you and the Seven."
@Pride

Pride opened his mouth to speak, but realized as Mercurius pushed on that it was--almost--a rhetorical question. The offer--no, the desire--given voice, took him by surprise.

A wave of appreciation struck--and then one of worry. He wasn't wholly unfamiliar with the white lion's story. He knew that Orion held... memories for him, though he hadn't ever delved into the deepest--hadn't ever pushed that far. And anyway, Orion wasn't always the safest place--look at what Raheerah had done to it, only recently.

"Are you certain?" he asked Mercy softly, pale eyes steady on the massive feline face. "I know this place holds... memories, for you, and is not always the... safest cave."

But another part of him, beneath the hesitant concern, was rejoicing. To have him here--his closest friend, actually close at hand-? To have life in Orion, again? Gatherings, perhaps; lights and gardens? A fleeting joy, tempered by the wariness of Mercy possibly changing his mind, danced through his heart and across his face. And without thinking--impulsive, for once--he blurted his inner thoughts. "I had meant quiet. But now that you make this suggestion, I realize I felt it was empty. Peaceful, yes, but--void of life. There is drifting dust in the light and little else--it's beautiful, but to have you here?" He turned fully to face the lion, expression soft as he moved his weight from one hoof to the other. "I must admit, the idea of an Orion teeming with life--with your gardens, and our lights, and with children-... is... appealing." His head dipped, eyelids dropping almost bashfully as he considered.

Could they have that, here-? Happiness, in Orion?

Pride had never even considered moving his family here; but now that Mercurius had suggested it, he realized that the idea alone made him... happy.

But-... "But consider it... If it is company you miss, but Orion is uncomfortable for you, we can find another place. I admit that the idea of filling it with light and life is appealing, but I wouldn't want you to force yourself here if you're uncomfortable," he added, and there was a deep sincerity--a worry--to his words.

@Mercy

"Are you certain?"

More than I am about most things.

"I know this place holds… memories, for you, and is not always… the safest cave."

Were they of a shape unheard of by the caves—were they human, Mercy might’ve reached over, might’ve taken his friend’s hand, might’ve had them weaving their fingers together. He would’ve given that hand the quickest of squeezes, would’ve pulled it towards his fast-beating heart.

The sincerity of his voice would have to do: "I will never get past all that happened if I continue to wallow in it and hide away." Moonlit eyes practically melted, "the good—the truly good—times are few and far; I’d like to have more, I think." His head tipped upwards, a huff punctuating the last sentence. Onto the point, chased his ramblings away. "I… do not think I’ve been more certain of something."

(Other than, of course, that stag King’s ability to be healed by him and change.)

Mercy searched the silvery gaze—so fixed on him… ?—for unsteadiness, a wavering in Pride’s own decision. The stag had fretted and nagged at his own worries; stepped in for the now-defunct Kingdom of Eridanus in their time of need; offered home and security. He ought not let his legs grow so wobbly, but—what of the off-chance? A signifier that he’d once again overstepped their vaguely-penciled-in boundaries?

"… but to have you here? I must admit, the idea of an Orion teeming with life—with your gardens, and our lights, and with children—… is… appealing."

Oh.

Inky lips spread in what could best be described as a beam, and he strode forward. Gone was the weakness in his gait, his own wariness and shyness—he knew enough, now, to bear that confidence. Pride, bless his soul, still concerned himself with Mercy’s safety and comfort, but—"I believe I’d be in capable... hooves." He hummed, soft and soothing, "well, I think I know that."

Dealing in absolutes.

The moment sat between them for a moment. His heart jumped out of his chest, and another headache started to beat at the base of his gemstone—like there'd been some sort of magical misfire. Mercy barely tamped down the wince twisting his face, instead looking sidelong.

He distracted himself, with the chrysalises, fussing idly at a plant and murmuring, "do you think… ah, not to be presumptuous… but, do you think we could handle a few more children?"
@Pride

Pride studied Mercurius, for a moment. His heart leapt, again, at this question--but there was more to it, wasn't there? An unspoken something in Mercy's words, a...

"Of course," he said, tone reassuring, still searching the white lion with his gaze. What is he asking me? he wondered. 'Can we raise more children' was an intense enough question: a serious one, a lifechanging one. Yet somehow, Pride could read more in the words. "A large family is a happy one," he murmured, trying not to think of Astraea's threats and Vargas's promises. Of the claws of Lord Dhracia descending on them. Of dragons, turned to oil-

"As large a family as you would like, I will always be there for you--for all of you. All of us." Something's still missing. "Would you like me to--choose?" he hazarded, at last, a little guess. Quiet. Tentative. A moment's hesitation once again as the lion offered the most subtle agreement, and Pride turned, looking around Orion.

He knew they were out there--dots of magic that he spotted now and again, as ubiquitous as Orion's 'stars' and likewise scattered across the darkness of the cave. The white stag made his way off, with a nod for Mercy to follow.

It wasn't far. It wasn't one he'd noticed before, either--newly left behind? Or dragged along by some hapless Red Mouse who didn't understand the gemstone's significance?

Either way, Pride dipped down his head to nudge aside the loose rock around it with his nose, and then stepped back. "This one has life, if you wish," he offered softly, seeking out Mercy's moonlit eyes with his own.

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