Chapter Text
Thunder rumbles beneath Bröder’s feet, but he ignores it.
They’re so high up the stacked rocks that there’s always thunder rumbling, either amongst the stones, up in the sky or in Bröder’s stomach that he’s used to the sound. Especially when it’s his stomach.
There isn’t much to eat up here; the white-stars covering the ground where grass should grow and making that which does poke through hard and tough and tasteless; meaning that Silver-Song or Green-Sweet or one of the other little-legs takes it upon themselves to see him fed each day by venturing with him down the carved stone path until the trees are green-leaved and growing taller than his shoulders.
Bröder doesn’t mind walking up and down the stone path each day, but he doesn’t understand why Gentle-Spark settled their herd up on the stacked rocks rather than amongst the green trees like they have been doing. And normally, Bröder thinks to himself, as he shakes off sleep and pushes himself to stand, their herd would’ve moved on by now. They’ve been living amongst the cold cave dwellings for many a cycle, when before they’d move on only after a night or two stretched out underneath shaded trees or near a river bank.
Little-Brother had said, when Bröder asked, that they’re waiting for Red-Wind. Bröder had noticed his disappearance shortly after they climbed the rocks and into the cold, having asked, and been told that they don’t know how long that they’ll have to wait, only that they’re waiting.
It hasn’t been long, but Bröder misses his friend already.
But this has already happened once before; their meeting and separation, and while it was many, many cycles before they had seen one another again, Gentle-Spark hadn’t waited before, and it gives Bröder hope that it won’t be as long this time.
He knows how to hold his patience and he doesn’t complain.
As it was with every morning; Bröder woke alongside the sound of the rumbling thunder of his stomach and the gentle clatter of the rumble-feet’s hooves on the stone. It wouldn’t be long now until one of the little-legs comes to lead them down the rock path where they can eat plentiful mouthfuls of green grass.
And this morning is no different: Cold-Fire the first inside the straight-stone cave, brushing a hand over Bröder’s trunk in warm greeting before he heads deeper in, to where the rumble-feet give greeting in snorts and nickers; coming to inspect his hands because they keep forgetting that he hasn’t brought food for them, they’ll have to go find it.
Behind him comes Green-Sweet, who doesn’t have any food either, but he has plenty of kind words and gentle fingers that scratch over Bröder’s tough skin, before he’s reaching up to slip the soft-bark padding over his back, humming words and sharing moments of affection with his mate, while Cold-Fire dresses his rumble-foot in a similar soft-bark just like Bröder’s—except without the soft fur—slipping reins over the rumble-feet’s heads; bracing themselves to meet the chilling air outside.
Many of the herd are already waiting, although no one else except for Cold-Fire and Green-Sweet will be coming down to the meadow fields.
Noisy One is swinging his metal stick around where he’s stood opposite to Shadow and Silver-Song, like they’re about to play another of their games where they try and hit one another with their sticks and make too much noise for the early morning. Thunderstorm and Little-Sister are watching the three of them from where they’re sat near their cave entrance; food in their hands and furs over their shoulders; with Gentle-Spark stood beside them.
And there’s another little-legs stood right beside him. One that Bröder hasn’t seen before.
Green-Sweet and Cold-Fire don’t immediately set off for the grass fields down the path, getting caught in conversation with Noisy One for the moment, and so, curious, Bröder seizes the chance to watch the new face from where he stands beside Gentle-Spark. He is turned so that he’s facing Bröder; a bright smile stretched across his face.
And now he’s coming closer.
The thunder-foot tilts his head in greeting, a little chirp of noise spilling from his lips where he shows his curiosity to this new friend, not just because he’s a new face, but because Gentle-Spark is warm with him; as warm with him as he is with Red-Wind and that’s not something many of the other little-legs can claim.
Bröder has travelled alongside his keeper long enough to know that he’s a private creature that doesn’t join in the touching, huddling and cuddling that his herd-mates tend to do with one another. But this little-legs has been stood close enough to touch Gentle-Spark, to lean into his space and share laughter; and that now that he steps away, Gentle-Spark is quick to follow.
It reminds Bröder of his mother’s protectiveness when he was still very young, and it makes him all the more curious.
It is Red-Wind’s scent that greets him first; dusty earth and soil warmed by the sun; the crispness of the mountain’s voice and the tender smouldering of Gentle-Spark’s fire that makes Bröder tilt his head in further question. He can’t help the way he lifts his gaze above the little-leg’s head in sudden excitement, searching for his friend.
Little-Brother had said that they were waiting for him, Bröder knowing that they wouldn’t have to wait long if they were waiting at all…
Red-Wind isn’t here, but this little-legs is; Bröder standing to be careful and cautious, his curiosity replaced by something of which he doesn’t know its name; offering his trunk and letting the little-leg rub his hands over his brow in imitation as to how everyone pets him, all while Bröder stands, feeling oddly unsettled.
It isn’t like the little-leg bears either him or his herd-mates any threat. Gentle-Spark certainly wouldn’t let the stranger so close if that was the case, and he had been stood beside Little-Sister just a moment before, to whom all of their herd is incredibly protective, including the rumble-feet.
And yet Bröder doesn’t like the fact that he can’t smell the little-leg’s inherent scent beneath that of Red-Wind’s or the touch of Gentle-Spark’s.
“I guess you wouldn’t recognise me when I’m like this,” the little-legs says softly, like that should make any sense at all, one hand still resting against Bröder’s trunk, the other slipping to lay over the hand that circles his waist; Gentle-Spark having come to stand beside him, their bodies close enough that they’re touching, the little-leg’s leaning his weight against him.
Bröder casts an eye between his keeper and this stranger, because he doesn’t understand why the pair of them act similar to when Green-Sweet and Cold-Fire don’t think anyone is watching.
But it’s not like they could be—not when the only one that Gentle-Spark has ever truly cared for beyond Bröder is—
“It’s Red-Wind,” comes Little-Brother’s voice; the little-legs himself stepping out of their large stone-walled cave with a cloak pulled over his shoulders to combat that cold wind. (“Red-Wind?” the strange, scentless one says, to which Gentle-Spark explains that Bröder has given everyone a name that means something to him, although he refuses to share what his own second name was.)
Bröder feels his feet shift beneath him, staring between Little-Brother as he makes his way closer, and back to the other little-leg that still has a hand against his trunk. He’s only dimly aware that the rest of the herd are watching them.
“He… smells like Red-Wind,” the elephantine agrees, slowly, but that’s not quite what Little-Brother means; smiling, reaching Bröder in that moment to run a hand up the length of his trunk, breaking touch between him and the stranger.
“He doesn’t just smell like Red-Wind. He is Red-Wind,” he says, like that should make sense, but Bröder just shakes his head, because Red-Wind is a not-a-thunder-foot and this creature is a little-legs that just happens to smell like his friends because he’s been around them—been around Red-Wind and Gentle-Spark that he smells like them and the reason that Bröder can’t smell the little-leg’s scent is because….
Because….
Bröder stands quiet and unsure as Little-Brother and Little-Sister take turns to tell Bröder Red-Wind’s story; that he used to be a little-legs before he was a not-a-thunder-foot, that he forgot how to look like a little-legs and that’s why he had only ever shown himself to be a not-a-thunder-foot.
They’ve been waiting for him to wake up, they say, after they had come to this mountain stronghold and Red-Wind had been injured in the fight; that he’s okay now, and finally a little-legs once more.
They tell him he’s still the same friend Bröder knows, only smaller now.
Bröder… still doesn’t understand.
There are many things that Bröder doesn’t understand; many things that the little-legs can do that don’t, and won’t, make sense to him; like why his Gentle-Spark can hold a sky-fire in his hands; why Little-Brother and Little-Sister can understand him when no one else can, and why Shadow doesn’t have a scent come the night.
If Red-Wind is a little-legs, then it wouldn’t be unreasonable that he would be able to do things that Bröder would never understand. Being able to look like a little-legs and being able to look like a not-a-thunder-foot when he wants to, seems to be one of those things.
All he knows is that Red-Wind is a little-legs now.
When Bröder looks at his old friend, there’s a feeling in the pit of his stomach, like he’s eaten too much food, and at the same time, it’s like he hasn’t eaten anything at all.
Around them everyone is happy and laughing; Red-Wind’s hand back on his trunk and Bröder remembers to be gentle and slow as he pokes him lightly with his trunk, gurgling low and warm even if his sound keeps breaking while the little-legs laugh and talk and the words wash over his head like too-deep water.
For the first time since leaving the fields and plains of his homeland, Bröder wants to go home. He has never cared about that fact that his herd was made up of little-legs and rumble-feet before, but with Red-Wind so small and fragile now, Bröder can’t help the sudden feeling that he’s alone now.
He had been waiting for a friend that hadn’t been coming, and only he hadn’t known.
The feeling hangs over Bröder’s head like pregnant rain clouds for the rest of the morning; his feet slow as he carries Green-Sweet and Little-Sister down to the green-scape of meadows and leaved trees, eyes on his feet to make sure he doesn’t trip or stumble, following close behind Cold-Fire and the rumble-feet that he leads to tree-shaded grazing.
That hungry-full feeling in the pit of his stomach is like a weight on his shoulders and it makes Bröder feel weird. He doesn’t have the energy to wander off like he was wont to do when his herd-mates watch the easily-frightened rumble-feet, and instant it is he who remains close to his herd, trying to fight the weird feeling in his stomach by eating at the grass beneath his feet, oddly un-tempted by the green leaves above his head and the dew-damp fronds that tangle around his feet from where they grow amongst the roots.
He decides that it’s better that he doesn’t wander off, because Green-Sweet and Cold-Fire get to do that; the two of them not moving far, only behind a tree and a few bushes so that they can touch and scent and clean one another; Bröder stepping into the role of matriarch to take the responsibility of looking after the Little-Sister, who picks flowers and fruits, choosing not to eat them but to fill the bags that Bröder carries in his soft-bark blanket. She keeps offering him red berries by the bushel, and normally he would shovel them into his mouth with hardly a moment to savour the taste.
But that hungry-full feeling makes eating hard and Bröder simply slips them in the bags while she’s gathering more.
When the sky-fire begins to fall and the wind blows cold, Green-Sweet decides that it’s time for them to return to the herd atop the stacked rocks; Bröder carrying Little-Sister while he and Cold-Fire ride together; the elephantine wondering as they walk, if he should’ve eaten more grass when it was readily available, because there are white-stars on the ground now and the bushes that grow are tough and tasteless and the hungry-full feeling is leaning more towards hungry.
It’s because they roots are tough and tasteless that the rumble-feet don’t eat them, meaning there are plenty should Bröder get hungry enough, and Little-Sister will probably try and give him the red berries when she finds them in his bags later on.
Noisy One, Shadow and Silver-Song were still outside when they reached the collection of cave dwellings; still swinging their metal sticks at one another, laughing and seemingly unaffected by the brisk wind that fills the air. Bröder didn’t realise he was looking for Red-Wind and Gentle-Spark until Green-Sweet had to give his tusks a gentle tug to pull him towards shelter where he’s been leading him towards the cave that is meant for him and the other four-footed members of the herd.
Bröder wonders if Red-Wind was still a little-legs.
Maybe, he thinks to himself; he wouldn’t feel so alone if Red-Wind was a not-a-thunder-foot once more.
The hungry-full feeling stayed with Bröder but he didn’t know why.
It made him tired and slow. It made him want to lay on the dry grass in his cave and not walk down the mountain. It made Little-Brother ask weird questions, and it made Gentle-Spark worry.
He came to sit beside the thunder-foot on the morning of the second day that Bröder had awkwardly trudged down to the green fields and returned, to promptly lay himself down on the dry straw where he’d seen many days and nights pass as of late; humming along to Gentle-Spark’s words as they bit and crackled and softened like wilting flowers as the trees grew gold before the cold. With him came the little-legs—Red-Wind—sat beside Gentle-Spark and sharing his worry; offering food Bröder simply didn’t want to eat.
Because Bröder wasn’t hungry.
He tells his Gentle-Spark this, (or, he tells Little-Brother and Little-Brother tells Gentle-Spark) but that’s the wrong thing to say, because apparently Bröder only ever thinks of his stomach. He knows he’s not sick. He knows he hasn’t eaten anything to make him sick, but the urge to get up and trudge down the mountain, and then trudge back up is a hurdle too large.
Little-Sister’s warmth doesn’t help him either. She has tried; her hands on his brow and her eyes closed, a warmth surging from her hand into Bröder’s body that shifts the hungry-full feeling, but never quite dislodges it completely, but it helped to settle his herd’s worries at least.
And then, Thunderstorm tilts his head and wonders that maybe it’s something else, because Bröder has only started acting this way since Kirishima introduced himself.
Red-Wind’s scent had discoloured into monochrome at those words; winter-pale and snow-cold, turning to Gentle-Spark with worry and an apology, maybe not quite understanding the reason why, and it’s only in that moment that Bröder realises that Thunderstorm is right; everyone else noticing in the same moment that things had changed following their ‘reunion.’
“Is it my fault?” Red-Wind asks, in a voice that makes that hungry-full feeling press down on Bröder’s shoulder’s like the weight of the mountains, Gentle-Spark telling him no, turning to Bröder for the same…
But he can’t say anything, can’t meet their gaze when Little-Brother asks and—
“He’s not Red-Wind anymore.”
Red-Wind might be a little-legs some times, and he might be a not-a-thunder-foot when he chooses to be, but without him red and tall and strong, Bröder can’t help the overwhelming feeling he is on his own.
He didn’t even realise that it was his loneliness that had stolen his appetite and the will to get up and do anything.
And now Red-Wind—and Bröder needs to remember that he’s still Red-Wind, except that he’s simply small and fragile and breakable—feels that it’s his fault and he’s moving from where he’s sat beside Gentle-Spark, reaching out to lift Bröder’s head from where he’s laid on the dry straw, blinking mindlessly at the stone wall.
“C’mon, you’re not alone,” he tells him, urging the juvenile elephantine to stand and follow him as he leads him out into the late-afternoon-lit courtyard, one hand on Bröder’s tusk to half-lead, half-pull him where his feet are heavy and there’s a different feeling in the pit of his stomach because he doesn’t understand—
“I’m still Red-Wind,” he says turning, feet coming to a halt, hand slipping from Bröder’s tusk in the same moment.
But it’s a little hard to believe him when Bröder is looking down at a small little-legs instead of up at a towering not-a-thunder-foot who was strong enough to knock Bröder off of his feet.
“You’re lonely, aren’t you, because we haven’t been able to play and roughhouse, and part of that is my fault,” Red-Wind says, rambling, his words washing over Bröder’s head as he stares at the little-legs before him. Since he had found out who he was, he had kept his distance, impart because of the discomfort to being so close to him, and impart because he didn’t understand and he didn’t like that—didn’t like the aching in his body that came from that.
Red-Wind’s scent is as it had been when he was not-a-thunder-foot, although the spark of brimstone is harder to find; the sweetness of Gentle-Spark’s fire lifting every time he smiles, but there’s something older and far deeper that Bröder can neither name nor isolate. The hair on his head is the same colour as his scales; so much of him familiar as little-legs and not-a-thunder-foot both, and they’re the same, he’s still Bröder’s friend, but he has to be careful now, not to hurt Red-Wind—
“Come on then.”
Bröder blinks, confused, not having been paying attention and now Red-Wind is stood opposite him, arms wide and expecting, head tilted in unhidden amusement. The elephantine throws a glance over his shoulder, back towards where the others in his herd gather at the cave entrance, Gentle-Spark sharing that same fond amusement in an easy smile, arms folded, leant against the stone and making no move to explain what’s going on.
Bröder has to figure it out, but Red-Wind helps him when he closes the distant, grabbing Bröder’s tusk in one hand and giving it a gentle shake; releasing, and stepping back before Bröder can brush him off with his trunk. He’s grinning, smiling, bouncing on the balls of his feet and Bröder thinks he can see that the little-legs is trying to invite him into a game.
Got to be careful, he thinks to himself as he mirrors Red-Wind’s steps, reaching slow but easily to where he stands, trunk curled to poke lightly—
Except Red-Wind simply steps out the way.
“Come on,” Red-Wind teases him, in that same way that Gentle-Spark teases him when they play a similar sort of game; Bröder furrowing his brow and taking a deliberate step closer, forgetting his need to watch his strength, reaching—
Red-Wind steps out the way again, but this time closer, close enough that he can put both his hands on Bröder and give the thunder-foot a shove.
Bröder rocks onto two feet and nearly falls over.
Regaining his footing, Bröder turns wide eyes to where Red-Wind is laughing, to where Gentle-Spark’s grin is stretched across his face. The kioea doesn’t get a chance to think because Red-Wind is there, in front of him, hands reached up to shove—
This time it’s Bröder’s turn to jump away, a chirping song lifting from his voice as he does that makes Red-Wind’s grin shine brighter, his chest lifting like his feet as Red-Wind chases and Bröder keeps his tusks and himself out of reach, but poking, shoving, nudging with his trunk.
Red-Wind is just as strong as a little-legs as he is as a not-a-thunder-foot; graceful and fast and strong enough that when he does manage to shove Bröder, he has to brace himself so that he’s not knocked over; bracing his own weight against the little creature and finding that it’s still difficult to try and tumble him—certainly easier with his smaller size—and yet when Bröder finds himself abandoning his restraint and rocking his weight into Red-Wind, he either rocks into empty air where Red-Wind has slipped out of the way, or finds a solid mass that won’t move, won’t be shoved, won’t be tugged because he’s not weak, he’s not fragile.
And Bröder, after restless nights and empty-stomach days, finally feels the last of his hungry-full-guilt-pain disappearing beneath the sound of his gurgling laughter; Red-Wind’s laughter loud and free; their stupid, childish game brightening the smiles on the faces of their herd that watches on.
“I’m still here,” Red-Wind says, softly, when Bröder manages to slip his trunk around him and pull him in; their foreheads resting together, nuzzling like they have always done. “I’m still here.”
Gentle-Spark joins the pair of them, letting himself be caught by Bröder’s trunk as he pulls them both in, his apologies hidden and interrupted by his laughter and slightly-tired heavy breathing from where he’s chased Red-Wind around the courtyard without having eaten anything substantial for the past few days.
He gurgles; Red-Wind and Gentle-Spark laughing, their scents intermingling in the familiar way that it had all that time ago, when it had just been the three of them in the mountain meadow and the peaceful lake, where each day Bröder’s stomach was filled with sweet berries and luscious grass, and his days were spent play-wrestling and roughhousing with his not-a-thunder-foot and little-legs both.
That night, when the moon rises and the night grows cold, Bröder lays curled up with his little-legs both; the two of them entwined with one another, their warmth pressed in against them as he watches over them as they have watched over him.
And will always watch over him.
Because no matter how much their group grows, or whichever road they may follow, or how far apart they might be; they are all still a herd, together.
And Bröder will never let himself forget that again.