Black and Gold

Étaín and Tzilan
Mid Spring, Year 757, Windborne, The Spit


Tzilan

He lay motionless on the shore. His eyes were closed, slender neck arched and soft ears slack against his skull; there was little sign of life in the dappled gold stag. It was, in fact, that lack of movement that drew the eye - even on this most pleasant of days the wind was gusting playfully along the seafront, throwing eddies in the waves and tossing the heads of the sea-grass in the dunes.

Around the stag though - nothing. There was not a flicker of movement in his figure, not one of his multitudinous strands of hair was dancing in the breeze. It seemed he had constructed an invisible, impenetrable dome about himself and so the lean figure appeared almost frozen in time.

He did not want the wind to distract him today. He could not let it distract him; the black doe, from what he knew of her, had little time for those who spoke to the wind. He needed her support and that of her herd if he were to do the wind’s bidding, but he could not let her know that it was for the wind that he needed her help. He must wait, and be still and silent until the doe came.

If she comes…

Even despite his best efforts, the wind was whispering in his ear. One dark rimmed ear flicked, a ripple of frustration fluttering across his face as he sent the giggle breeze away. It mocked him, now? Now, when he had come to the Point as it had asked him? It was still laughing, bounding around the outside of his silent dome in cacophonous, joyful movements. The sand was tossed about, the sea-spray flung high into the air as the wind howled its merriment at him… he must not move. He would be still, and he would wait. He must wait. He would wait for ever.

She had to come.


Étain

The sorcerer would get his wish; Étaín was on her way, though how well her resolve not to kick him into the sea would hold up was dwindling as quickly as the tideline. Léithe was in danger of joining him, too. Étaín had warned the little doe, all round and vulnerable with foal, not to stray far. She knew stags were to be avoided and reported immediately but she insisted on ignoring the rules. It didn’t matter how nice this or the last stag seemed to be, it only took one to hurt her, to take her.

The little grey doe had wanted to come out and meet the stag with her, but Étaín had resolutely refused. She was staying under constant watch until her fawn was born. The idea of her getting hurt... Her own unannounced pregnancy was making her even more sensitive to keeping the does and fawns-to-be of the Point safe. And that meant getting rid of stags who were too close for comfort. Teeth gritting hard enough to hurt, Étaín plowed through the chest-high water still covering the Spit in the outgoing tide, having checked for crocodiles and snakes and other beasties first. You could never be too careful on Point Danger, a lesson she did not want Léithe to discover first hand.

It took her a moment to spot the stag. She thought briefly that the stag had listened to his better judgement and left before she made it to the mainland. The spring morning was blustery, buffeting her short mane and tugging on her tail. The salt and aroma of beached seaweed sucked sucked all useful scents from the air and the doe stamped a hoof on the soft wet sand with an impatient squealsh. Typical stag, drag her away from what had been a pleasant morning of grazing on a wild goose chase. There were better things she could be doing than playing games of hide-and-seek.

Eyes shadowed from the sun, recently risen over the mountains of the mainland, she thought she saw an out-of-place rock on the first dry dune of the mainland. She focused. Not a rock. A stag. He was unmoving, eyes closed, facing the sea. Étaín smirked. Easy target. Even without her yearly antler tine, she would be able to trounce the over-confident stag. Fancy sleeping on the Spit, knowing she was coming.

The wind was in her favour, flowing downwind, though it was odd she hadn’t smelt him yet even over the pungent seaweed drying on the beach below. Tossing her head, still unused to the lack of weight since she’d shed her horn not more than a moon ago, she started toward the stag with her purposeful lumbering pace. Maybe he would see her and rethink his idea to ‘talk’.

Sadly for him, he didn’t even move as she approached. Was he really that deeply asleep? “Stag!” She hailed, taking a last few steps towards him, “Have you no--” Something curious happened, distracting her from her chastisement of the golden male. As she took her last step, the wind did not merely slow or shift, it stopped. Her ears turned and she snorted in disconcernation. Ket could play with the wind, she had felt the unnatural pull and twist of wind acting out of the ordinary, but she had never felt this eerie stillness before. It was like sticking her entire head underwater.

She recoiled, backstepping out of his sphere of influence. Having no magic of her own, she could hardly combat Ket when she had a mind to spar with her crafty magic. This stag was clearly better at directing the wind than any doe on the Point, and that was one of the very few things that frightened Étaín.

Suffice it to say, Étaín was much more inclined to believe he was here ‘just to talk’ when he could have so easily invited himself to the Point without asking for permission. Gruffly, she cleared her throat and tried to sound less hostile, though she hadn’t had much practice of that as of late, “What are you doing here, Stormbringer?” She asked, eyeing the stag warily.

Looking at him there, pensive and waiting, she should have realised what he was before she blundered so close. She could see it now she was looking - the spring breeze tousled her hair back and forth, played with the sand all around him, but did not touch him nor the area around him. He had created his own windless sanctuary. She was preaching to Léithe about being careful, when she herself had become far too confident for her own good.


Tzilan

Tzilan did not hear her at first. The soft sloshing as she waded through the shallow band of seawater between the Point and the mainland was too gentle to disturb his concentration. Had the Cape’s leader simply been lost in meditation the voice of the breeze would certainly have brought news of her approach to him; but he would allow no zephyr to bring its message to him this day. He must speak to Étaín as an equal, fawnling to fawnling: the wind had its business here but he must be its representative, not its mouthpiece.

“Stag!”

He almost flinched when he heard her call, but he did not move. Even for a wind-singer as strong as Tzilan the strain of keeping this sphere of solitude was enough to absorb every part of the mind. He should have noticed her all the same; and it was only the force of his will that stopped him from reacting. Slowly, he opened his eyes, trying to maintain an air of powerful quiescence, just in time to catch the horror on her face as she reeled back from him.

Tzilan was surprised. He had heard that Étaín was well built but he had not imagined the enormous creature that stood close by: she was built like a manatee, all broad chest and thick limbs but there was none of the gentleness he had seen in the sea-cows here. Although she was wary he saw no reason for it - if she chose to she could squash him like a bug as he lay on the sand.

With exaggerated deliberation the lean stag stood and turned to face his stocky counterpart. Still silent, he began to push at the wind, spreading the circle of stillness around him and forcing it back.. he would suffer for this, he knew, when Étaín had gone, but he had to demonstrate his power to her. The wind would take its revenge back on the Cape, he was sure, but still he pushed against the spring breezes until the circle encompassed them both.

“I have a proposition for you, Étaín.”

His voice was soft and low as he spoke.

“As for what I want? Westhaven.”


Étaín

Feeling the strange controlled wind moving towards her, she shied sideways, stomped a hoof in warning and dropped her head as if to aim her non-existent antler at him. Spring was a six of one, half a dozen of the other kind of season. The grazing was lush and the weather was finally bearable, but she lacked the defence her single-pronged antler provided.

With a snort, she warned the stag, “Stop,” she demanded. He wasn’t making an overt attack, but she knew all too well how surreptitious these wind whispers could be. She wasn’t sure what he was trying to achieve, but this display of power was unnerving to the ungifted doe. Nevertheless, she didn’t want to deny him benefit of the doubt, especially when his ambitious words piqued her interest.

Huffing, she kept her head bowed and glared at him from under heavy set brows. “And how do you propose to take Westhaven?” She asked, unable to hide the hint of contempt in her voice. To take Westhaven was with the Cape herd was as a ridiculous notion as trying to take it with the Point Splinter Herd. The main herd was much too large, prepared and bigoted to submit to religious fanatics or feminist outsiders.

It occurred to her absently that he had used her name without her giving it. Had Léithe overshared, or was she known beyond the Point now? That idea scared her, but also filled her with a little pride. To be known was a blessing and a curse. Your strengths were public knowledge, but so were your weaknesses.


Tzilan

Stop? He frowned, ever so slightly at her command and that frown deepened for a fraction of a second as he heard the shrill laughter of the wind in his ear. He was internally furious with both the wind and himself; it took every fibre of his concentration to remain still and calm. He stopped pushing, let the wind push back and finally released it altogether.

The wind leapt about him, rushing at his mane and tail like a fawn delighted to see its long absent father. He blinked slowly and ignored it as best he could, denying the raucous laughter he could hear rattling in his ears.

“That is why I have come to you, Étaín. My herd knows the way of the wind, yours the art of combat,” he said, as softly as he dared.

He would not send the wind to carry his voice to her ears, her reaction to his dome of still air was enough to convince him not to. Since he had learned that trick, lifetimes ago, he had not had to raise his voice and now it seemed almost unnatural to him to speak above a gentle murmur.  The wind knew his voice too well to let him go unheard on the Cape; he hoped it would grant him that boon with Étaín.

“We will protect you from the Winter storms. We will shield your young and old alike. I have shown you that I alone could do this for a time; there are more like me on the Cape.”

“Not as strong though, are they?” the wind giggled in his ear. He ignored it.

“I have seen your warriors patrolling. I know that with your guard and mine we could graze safely on Westhaven. I know that if we were as one that Windborne would fear to tread the ground nearby.”

He watched the aggressive, wary doe silently for a second, allowing the wind to billow his sand-and-seafoam mane about his face.

“We deserve better than swamps, Étaín.”


Étaín

She had to fight the compulsion to chase the presumptuous stallion away. What made him think they needed his protection? ‘Because you do’, the pragmatic voice answered in her mind. She huffed and drew his head up, tipping it proudly. While it was true a little flattery went a long way, it was an epic trek to get into Étaín’s good graces. Especially for a stag she didn’t know.

She didn’t want to admit it, but he’d struck a chord with his last statement. The Point does did deserve better than swamps. Too many times to count had the terrain or the sea or the creatures that lurked there claimed one of their own. Equality was what they fought for, but it felt as if they were fighting a losing battle. Gritting her teeth, she gave the stag a hard stare. That was certainly a doubt he was not going to be privy to, nor anyone else.

“So you propose... an alliance? The Cape and the Point?” She snorted, but it was not absolute derision, but it was clear she would not jump at the idea. Suffice it to say, Étaín was not quick to trust. “Even together, we would not outnumber the main herd unless you have somehow filled the Cape to the brim with followers,” and she used ‘followers’ tentatively in place of ‘religious lunatics’, “No alliance of ours would match the mainland’s army for numbers...” She glanced inland, at the high ground where the grazing was richer, dryer, and safer. But they would be able to hold better grazing, and if they steered clear of the main herd, they would be able to chase off any patrols with ease.

“You want your own army, then? You think to recruit the Point does to do your bidding? Follow your god? Follow your stags into battles and skirmishes?” Despite the lack of evidence to suggest he was proposing that her does would be bidden to his stags, she highly doubted he expected to share power equally. No stag did. There was no Queen of Windborne, only a King. If this Cape stag fancied himself a Leader, she doubted he’d be happy to share that responsibility with a doe, and a heathen doe no less. Magic had forsaken her, his god surely did not smile on her. He wondered if he would care for an alliance if he knew that.


Tzilan

“NO!”

The wind echoed so loudly in his ears that he could not believe Étaín would not hear. There was no change in the fury on the dark doe’s expression, the contempt with the scheme she had invented for him written across her heavy frame. Either his expression of surprise at the wind’s exclamation had enraged her further or she was not deigning to acknowledge it.

“You must not allow this! You must not!”

The wind was furious, screeching with desperation and wheeling about them, buffeting the stag and doe both with feeble spring sea-breezes. Its wailing was descending into a pathetic whine, listing the woes and weaknesses of the Cape at length into the leader’s ears. They needed the dark doe, needed her warriors, the Cape couldn’t possibly do it without them, if she would not help them then all was lost…

The golden stag stood still and silent. He could not ignore the wind’s wailing and again he wondered how other fawnlings could not hear its voice. Étaín could not, that much was clear as shallow water now, she would have fled if she could hear the endless litany of weakness and failing that the Cape herd displayed according to the sea-wind’s whining voice.

“I seek no dominion over you,” he said at last, closing his eyes for a moment in a desperate attempt to shut out the pathetic noise. “The wind calls stags and hinds alike; we are no band of randy colts desperate for your fertile company. I wish only to take from the rest of them what is due to us.”

This last sentence was said almost as a sigh, a breath escaping from some inward place. He opened his eyes again then, and looked up at the bullish female’s face. When he spoke again his voice was grave and low.

“I swear by the voice of the wind, I would not be King of this place.”


Étaín

The larger doe took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was not the time to start making snap decisions. He may only make the offer once, and if there was any potential in this offer then she would be a fool to throw it away. Still, as stupid as it was to dismiss the idea out of hand, it was similarly stupid to jump in with all four feet. Not taking the time to look at what you were stepping into was how you got eaten by crocodiles or swallowed by quicksand.

She fixed her surly glare on the stag for a long while, grinding her teeth in consideration. Finally she huffed, and flicked her tail. “Wait here. Wander as you must for food and drink but meet me back here on the morning of the day after next. If you so much as even step foot on the Spit, my soldiers will show you just how proficient in the art of combat they truly are. If you’re even the slightest sincere about an alliance, you’ll be here when I return. I will take your proposal to the herd, we’ll... deliberate on it.”

There was no true way to judge his sincerity. She could only give him the benefit of the doubt, and she was wary to even do that. She needed council, she needed the advice of her second-in-command and the rest of the herd. She couldn’t make a decision like this - that would affect them all - without them.


Tzilan

Two days she asked of him; two days he waited.

The days passed slowly and his meditation was troubled. There was no silent communion with the wind for the golden stag: it was worried and he was troubled. The area around the Point was at its most hospitable at this time of year but it was still a dangerous place to be; he still heard the snarling calls of dingos and the whistling of the troubled wind did nothing to abate them.

What would happen if she did not return?

The question circled his mind every moment of his waking hours; he knew the answer but was desperate to avoid facing it. If Étaín did not come back, accepting his proposal, then it was doomed. The Cape herd were, almost certainly, the strongest Stormsingers on the island but they were thin in numbers and too scared to approach the better grazing without the Point does’ support.

Tzilan had wondered, late on the second day, if Étaín quite realised how very small and afraid a fawnling coming to the Cape was. Her does ran by choice; they came to her to seek a better life, to find equality. The Cape herd was very different.

They were misfits, cast offs, unwanted burdens. They listened to the wind which the rest of the herd was so determined to silence and so they were rejected. Oh, some came by choice to his herd but most did not.

Tzilan had not.

To graze Westhaven he needed the does, he needed their fierceness and their independence. They had chosen to leave the safe grazing, now he needed them to choose to take it back. He could protect them from the winter storms, he knew they needed that just as any group of Windbornes did, and the cast offs and burdens would show their value.

By the morning of the second day he was pacing the beach restlessly, the wind curling around him as his frustration and desperation grew. If Étaín returned, she would see him with burning eyes and wreathed in the angry air. If Étaín returned, she would see the power the misfits wielded.


Étaín

The debate with Ket had been a vocalisation of her own fears and worries, but it was good to know that she wasn’t alone in them. After mulling over the idea of the alliance for the last few days, she, Ket, and the majority of other Point Splinter does had voted towards a decision.

On the morning of the second day, as the tide parted across the Spit and opened up the daily landbridge, an imposing sight would meet the eye of the Cape stag. With the blocky dark doe leading the way, and a wiry little palomino doe at her flank, a regiment of warrior does came trotting across the sand. They were all unique and different, but the one thing that unified them was the hard glint in their eye and the determination in their walk.

Étaín spotted the Cape stag stood upon the beach where they had first met, his mane and tail caught up in the unnatural breeze that surrounded him. With barely a twitch of her ear in Ket’s direction, the does who had their own power summoned up an opposing wind that - while not comparable to the sheer force that the Cape stormcaller could manage - would at least show the stag they were not without their own arcane strengths. She could feel Ket’s more powerful magic whipping at her mane and tail, and Étaín threw her head up proudly as they approached.

“Stag,” she called, having no doubt that her voice would carry with help from her friend. “You waited, then.” She observed, leading the dozen does up onto the drier sand of the mainland before coming to a halt. “Good.”

This time there was still a healthy dose of wariness about her, but she did not give the stag any sign that she’d brought the does as a threat, more a show of strength. He had his magic, she had her warriors. Étaín was sure - or near enough to - that the stag was sincere, but there would always be a part of her that was always watching, ready for the metaphorical antler to drop. They needed this alliance, but she would not forsake her suspicious nature easily, especially not when every instinct about stags was crying for her to listen to it. No stag had shown her loyalty before, why would the laws of nature change now? These had been exactly the point in the debate that has spanned the last few days on the Point, but the conclusion had been an almost unanimous one. They needed the alliance more than they disliked the idea of trusting an outsider.

“I’ll cut to the chase - you’ll learn I’m not one for preamble,” a muttering of agreement from the warriors at her back brought a wry smile to her face. “We have an accord, stag; Tzilan,” she’d known his name, and she supposed out of respect she should probably use it now, “Your magic for our strength. Our terms are as such; during winter we keep to our respective homes. We trade a half-dozen of your stormcallers for a half-dozen of my warriors to start with in order to keep the Point safe from the storms and the Cape safe from wayward patrols. During summer, we trade a different half-dozen acolytes for training. We’ll teach your Cape young how to fight, and you teach our Point young how to wield magic as you do. During summer - depending on how negotiations go - we may combine part or all of our herds for grazing on the mainland. For now our goal is to survive, not fight. When we are strong, then we can discuss our offensive position over our defensive position.”

She fixed the golden stag with a steady stare, “If you accept these terms, then you are welcome to join us on the Point to talk out the details of our new alliance. If you cannot agree to them, then you should leave now. I must warn you, st-- Tzilan. If you cross us, we will count you among our enemies.” She didn’t need to say out loud that while their herd could hardly take on the main Windborne herd, the Cape was another matter entirely. “Do you understand?”


Tzilan

“She comes! She comes she comes, they have said yes, I heard them, they say they will help us, oh stag of mine they will help us and we will have warriors and we will be free! We will be free, my stag, free of the swamps!”

The wind, so pained and woeful these past two days, came rushing upon him with hysterical glee. It swept about him as a kittenish whirlwind, stronger than his own conjured gusts and giddier than a fawn in a flower patch. The change in its demeanour was so strong and strange that the lean stag almost leapt and danced with it - but he did not. Even when he and the wind were alone he did not dance; and now he could see the figures approaching he would not act the fool.

Étain was trooping her colours, strange and varied as they were. He had not realised - too deeply buried in the problems of the Cape - that the Point could be as differing as his own herd. Tall, lean, small and round; defiant warriors of all ages and colours they strode towards him across the Spit; all watching and all waiting for their leader to speak. Their magic was swelling too, he could feel it as they approached and the wind’s giggling and dancing only increased as they came nearer. The spring zephyr leapt across the water to join them, dancing with their breezes and gusts and roaring with delight to have found friends in such a place - so unexpected, so novel! Tzilan shook his head quickly - they were of Windborne, of the wind, there was no reason that they should not direct its gusts. All the same, he could feel none quite as strong as himself but that doe walking with Étain - she had power.

She was lean and wiry, and though her frame was dwarfed by her black leader she moved with the confidence of strength. She had more magic than perhaps the rest of this herd combined, he would wager, and that thought made him oddly calm. To have one that was almost a mirror of himself - for her golden coat and white markings were so close to his own that they might have been siblings - was strangely reassuring, even before Étain spoke.

“You see? You see! She has said yes, yes yes YES!”

“Étain,” he called back, letting the wind carry his voice, “I am glad you have returned. I have waited as you asked and your answer brings me great joy.”

The stag remained still as he spoke, a stillness that, like his voice, told few emotions. He was certain, though, the windsingers of the Point would see more than the light in his eyes and the words he spoke to tell them of his happiness at her response. The wind about him was dancing giddily, playing with seafoam and turning up sand, and it raced to meet their own magic like a long lost sister, turning and whirling around their breezes in a more exuberant greeting than Tzilan had ever given in person.

“Your terms are fair and worthy. If you will allow me, I will join you on the Point to discuss them further,” he said, and with a great effort of will at last he stilled the air about him. Solemnly, he folded his front legs and dropped his muzzle to the sand.

“I come to you naked of the wind, but for the wind that your warriors bring.”

He did not send his voice on the wind this time, so perhaps they would not hear. Even so, he rose and made his way across the Spit.