Chapter Text
Thunder rumbles in his stomach.
He’s hungry again.
Bröder knows that it’s the walking that is making him so hungry. His little-legs keeps leading him on and on, up hills and down them, through wild forests and grassy fields much softer than those he had grown up in; the grass tastier when he grabs it by the trunkful and stuffs it into his mouth whenever he gets that chance. The red sweets are tasty too; bushes growing here and there, dotted amongst the trees, but they’re harder to snatch at when his little-legs keeps directing him up the slope, a tap to his tusk to keep him walking through the shorter grass and it makes Bröder grumble because he’s hungry.
Back home, with his herd and his brothers and sisters, Bröder didn’t have to walk so much.
Sometimes he chose to; wandering off towards the river and mud, or towards the stacked rocks near the little-leg’s homes, to play the game of seeing how close he could get to the green leaves before a little-legs would find him, handfuls of sugar fruits in their hands as they led him back to the dry grass he calls home.
Bröder thinks Gentle-Spark has lost his home.
The two of them have been walking for a very long time; nights spent warmed beside a small fire and days spent chasing nothing but the stretching road, with Bröder carrying his little-legs or walking at his side, his trunk curled into the soft fur of Gentle-Spark’s cloak.
Now, his little-legs walks ahead of him, trailing growls from his mouth and a pace kicking at the dirt at his feet that keeps Bröder from wandering off to try and snatch at the red sweets that grow deeper in the forest.
Definitely lost, he thinks to himself as he fills his hunger on the fruits that hang from the trees, and white flowers that grow in bushels amongst the roots; the thunder-foot swinging his trunk back and forth in time with his feet, gurgling and humming as his little-legs leads them uphill, following the sound of a river.
Bröder hopes that they’ll cross it soon. Whenever the pair of them find water, his little-legs always lets Bröder drink his fill, whether he’s angry or not. Now, with the sound of the trickling stream and the hot wind blowing in from the valley cradle they leave behind, Bröder wants desperately to wet his mouth.
They’ve been walking since the fire rose into the sky and his last drink was at the river in the little-leg’s home they had found earlier this morning. Not his little-leg’s home, but another of the many that they’ve travelled through, near, or entirely avoided since they first left the dry grass fields and the stacked rocks that shadowed the distant plains.
This hill they climb is nothing like the fields that Bröder would chase his brothers and sisters and while the fruits are sweet and the forest shade is gentle beneath the light of the sky-fire, he can’t help the tiredness that drags at his feet. The higher they climb, the deeper into the forest they press, the harder the journey feels; the long grass and thick underbrush tangling at his rear legs and scratching at his skin. They don’t hurt him like blood-hunter claws, but Bröder doesn’t like the feeling of sharp around his ankles, grumbling and whining and trying to keep up with Gentle-Spark.
His little-legs struggles too; the claws of the forest snagging his cloak and fur one time too many before he sheds his skin and, bundled up, throws it over the soft bark that Bröder carries on his back before he slips his hand around Bröder’s tusk to help lead him through the undergrowth and steady his own balance so that he doesn’t end up in the mud.
And still the wind blew hot and the sun pierced heavily through the green-leaves and thunder rumbled in Bröder’s stomach. As they passed, he swung his trunk towards a small bush, knee-height and juicy green. In his want for food, he pulled Gentle-Spark with him.
“Bröder, for fuck’s sake, can you just walk? You can eat when we stop later,” Gentle-Spark hisses, and while his promise is all well and good, Bröder can’t be sure that there are any red sweets and ferns up ahead; grumbling longingly towards a bush set glittering beneath the sun too far from the path to warrant dragging his little-legs into the underbrush.
And yet, Bröder needn’t sulk for long, because they’ve barely pushed their way through another thorn bush, Bröder’s thunder yet to rumble, when they break free from the constant green of towering trees and caressing branches and clawing thorns; stepping out upon a small-plains. The grass is the same constant green of the forest, and yet it grows bountiful flowers all swaying in the wind, like a flutter of butterflies all perched on the ends of grass fronds, baring their wings to the sky-fire.
There were velvet-horns on the far side of the gurgling river; heads bowed to the grass, but Bröder’s thirst is as heavy as the heat on the back of his neck and he’s only a little sorry for scaring them when he lets out an excited squeal and goes charging; Gentle-Spark’s hand releasing his tusk, himself slow and meandering while Bröder charges over the grass and stops with a skid at the edge of the refreshing river water. He doesn’t charge in until he can’t stand, even though there’s a part of him that wants to swim and splash—to cool off where the sky-fire burns hot above him—but a drink is more inviting and he stands on the shore, scooping trunkful after trunkful of water into his mouth.
Gentle-Spark follows, slower, graceful, Bröder reaching with his trunk because his little-legs must be hot too and the water is cool and blissful.
“Come here you oaf, and let’s get that saddle off of you,” he calls, that same gentle rumble of amusement his mother gives when she calls him, rubbing her trunk over his face and leading him towards the baskets of green reeds that the little-legs have brought for the herd. Bröder goes willingly, chirping as Gentle-Spark waves him to the stone shore and moving to stand beside him; hands coming up to pet at Bröder’s skin, nails dragging perfectly over the places he can’t quite reach himself before moving to unhook the soft bark strapped underneath his stomach; the soft furs and the barely-noticed weight of Gentle-Spark’s foraged trinkets set aside, Gentle-Spark being his particular self to arrange them to his liking near the rocks before grabbing at handfuls of grass.
He never ate it—not like Bröder, who would happily spend the day chewing and eating and stuffing his mouth full of red sweets—instead stroking Bröder to help rid him of dirt and mud.
Silly, Bröder thinks contentedly beneath his little-leg’s ministrations. Swimming will wash the mud away.
But the petting is delicate and peaceful, Bröder humming to himself as Gentle-Spark brushes him, batting him with his trunk when he playful scratches at the skin above Bröder’s eyes, releasing him with a flourish of his hand so that the thunder-foot could run back to the stream.
It’s deeper near the rocks, and not nearly as playful as some of the river’s that he and his little-legs have found themselves walking alongside on their journey back home, but the sky-fire is hot and water cool; Bröder taking the time to splash and gurgle as he chases the flash of swimmer scales towards the other bank. It’s fun to play, even if it’s by himself; Bröder not only missing the way his herd cuddles and rubs him with their trunks, but missing his brothers and sisters who would chase him across the plains and splash alongside him in the rivers.
Gentle-Spark isn’t fond of splashing. Bröder still tries to get him to play, but each and every time his little-legs growls at him like the blood-hunters. Sometimes he does splash him back, but he’s not very good at it. He doesn’t have a trunk for a start; content instead to sit near the rocks and use his hands to wash his face.
Bröder wants to invite him to play, excitement coiling in legs that make him want to bound and leap and bellow his noise into the sky.
But the river is a balm to the heat and he doesn’t want to leave the shallows, instead filling his trunk until his head is heavy, before spraying it all out in a trumpet of noise, watching with gurgling laughter as he makes rain without clouds, and bright colours arcing through the air in front of him. He tries to grab at them, but they disappear with the laughter of the wind, but Bröder simply paints them again. This time, this time, he’s going to grab them.
The wind laughs again, snatching his colours like he was wont to snatch at the low hanging sweet fruits; Bröder churring as they’re swept away, turning, watching them go—
And sees a thunder-foot like himself watching him from the forest.
“Friend!” Bröder squeals excitedly, flapping his ears and splashing his feet in the river at the sight of a friend. He hasn’t seen another thunder-foot since leaving his home plains—certainly hasn’t found anyone else to play with him; not even a little-legs youngling where Gentle-Spark has kept them from lingering around others—and Bröder can’t help his excitement as he raises his trunk to invite this new friend to come and splash with him.
But the thunder-foot doesn’t trumpet back.
He rumbles low, gurgling in the back of his throat—the sound not quite happy, not quite content—so Bröder invites him again, taking a step towards the shore, his own trumpet softer and melodic. The thunder-foot doesn’t answer him, taking a step backwards—
But Bröder hasn’t climbed this too-tall hill for nothing, and while his little-legs is looking for home and he misses his herd, he’s not about to let his new friend disappear when there’s a perfectly good river to splash in: Bröder letting out an indignant squeal, and another, and then he’s charging out the stream, headless to the bite in Gentle-Spark’s voice as he goes charging across the flat, even ground.
“Bröder! Get back here!” his little-legs calls, but Bröder has found himself a friend and if Gentle-Spark isn’t going to play with him, then he’s going to chase after the thunder-foot.
Except, it’s not a thunder-foot at all.
Bröder slows his pace as he reaches the treeline, curiosity replacing excitement as he skips right up to the not-a-thunder-foot.
Well, he might be a thunder-foot. He’s tall, and he’s big and he has tusks—although they’re not either side of his mouth, but at the back of his head and they’re black-blue-dark unlike the white-stars that fall in the cold—and when Bröder reaches up with his trunk to greet him, he doesn’t have fur like the velvet-horns nor feathers like the birds; his skin rough, just like Bröder’s.
But he doesn’t have a trunk, and his neck is longer, and his tail is huge.
And he’s bright red.
Not a thunder-foot then.
Bröder asks him what his name is, still curious, still playful, asking what the not-a-thunder-foot is, asking why he doesn’t have a trunk as he rubs his own across the not-a-thunder-foot’s nose, grabbing playfully at the tusks the stick up like stone teeth, batting lightly at his cheeks when he doesn’t respond in anyway. No gurgle, no chuff, no trumpet.
Bröder tries making other noises too; humming and chirping and even stamping his feet when the not-a-thunder-foot tilts his own head.
He looks funny without a trunk, and it must be hard to play when he’s got nothing to grab with so it’s not like he can join in the poking and prodding, but Bröder’s excitement is infectious and it’s not long until the not-a-thunder-foot is talking back to him, deep rumbling in the back of his throat like shifting rocks; calm lifting in his scent, the flickering of flames indistinguishable to Gentle-Spark’s scent, and Bröder bellows his happiness, stomps his feet, flaps his ears and goes back to his rumbling.
He’s not deterred by the fact that the not-a-thunder-foot doesn’t understand him entirely—that doesn’t mean the two of them can’t play together—but, before Bröder can get a better grip around his friend’s tusk, Gentle-Spark is snarling like a blood-hunter that sets the not-a-thunder-foot stumbling backwards, breaking Bröder’s grip of him with a whimper in his throat.
“That’s just Gentle-Spark,” Bröder tells him, rolling his eyes to his little-leg’s bluster. “He’s my little-legs. He might be a bit noisy and pretends to be angry a lot, but that’s only because he’s cautious.” Gentle-Spark calls him again, volume measured, and Bröder can hear worry in his little-leg’s voice, which makes the thunder-foot laugh to himself. He reaches up, trunk rubbing over not-a-thunder-foot’s face. “Look, I’ll show you,” he says, before turning on his heel; his little-leg’s still near the shore where Bröder balters over to him, a skip in his step and amusement bubbling out of his mouth.
If he didn’t know any better, he might think his little-legs was frightened of not-a-thunder-foot.
Gentle-spark is quick to reach out with his arm, Bröder rolling his eyes even as he winds his trunk around it, nuzzling closer with a few choice words gurgling in the back of his throat, because, really, just because he wasn’t a thunder foot didn’t mean that he wasn’t friendly, and hasn’t Bröder just greeted him? Couldn’t his little-legs see that they were friends?
But Gentle-spark still bears his fangs when not-a-thunder-foot moves; Bröder’s worry rising up in a whine when he sees his new friend turn away from them, burying his head into the forest, long neck, long body, long tail swallowed up by the green.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Bröder grumbles under his breath, jerking his trunk away from Gentle-spark with an annoyed whine breaking on his tongue. But Gentle-spark must’ve been expecting it because Bröder isn’t able to break his grip. He knows his little-legs can be stubborn sometimes, so there’s no use trying to pull away and give chase.
Except it seems that Bröder doesn’t have to; his friend not having chosen to leave like Bröder feared, and now he’s making his way closer with green-leaves in his mouth and worry taking wing from his throat. Bröder doesn’t understand why, nor does he understand the way that Gentle-Spark and not-a-thunder-foot edge around one another like they’re following the steps of a courtship dance; and neither the purpose of giving leaves to the little-legs.
But he does know what it means when Gentle-Spark sheathes his silver fang, and he knows it’s a promising thing when he bends to the offered leaves and—okay, no, Bröder doesn’t know what it means, but he’s not thinking about it anymore when not-a-thunder-foot stands from where he had laid down in front of the little-leg’s, crooning, excited as he scratches at the ground, flicking his tail and—
He’s got wings.
Definitely not a thunder-foot.
Bröder doesn’t care.
He’s found himself a new friend—Gentle-Spark approving—and as soon as his little-legs loosens the tangle of trunk and arm, Bröder is pulling away, charging back towards not-a-thunder-foot with unbound excitement.
And maybe he’s a little too enthusiastic because he ends up charging directly into him, the two of them colliding with bellowed laughter and bubbling excitement when not-a-thunder-foot doesn’t stumble under Bröder’s weight like he was expecting, but stands tall and strong like a rock.
It becomes a game, with Bröder chasing, chugging along after his friend who darts out of the way at the last minute; agile and fast, but Bröder isn’t put out and he bellows excitement as he swings his trunk and makes to grab at his tusks whenever they’re in reach. They try and unbalance one another, shoving and shunting, and while not-a-thunder-foot doesn’t have a trunk to grab, he plays along with snapping his teeth—not to scare, or to grab—but teasing, and Bröder squeals at the new game when his friends nips playfully at his feet, herding him towards the river.
It’s cool and refreshing and tonnes more fun to play with a friend than to simply splash by ones’ self; spitting water at one another; Bröder squealing when not-a-thunder-foot flicks his tail to send a wave of water rushing at him with the power of oceans.
Sometimes he trips over himself; sometimes the turn of his head toppling him into the water, sometimes knocking Bröder over too where he’s much heavier, but it’s fun and it’s easy and Bröder has missed this more than he realised as he chases after not-a-thunder-feet, trying to grab a hold of his tusks again as he trumpets his laughter, not-a-thunder-foot full-on headbutting him, rolling his weight onto two legs to knock him sideways into the water; the pair of them laughing and gurgling and purring as they dance around one another, feet splashing, tail and wings churning the water and suddenly there’s a huge arc of water fountaining up into the air, colours splattered across the breeze.
And a spitting, angry little-legs that got soaked underneath it all.
Bröder laughed, unable to help himself while Gentle-Spark growls and barks, fire crackling in his hands. It’s false anger though; Bröder having witnessed it enough times, although it isn’t often that he catches his little-legs off guard—normally sending it all hissing in a cloud of white mist before it can even touch him—but this time Bröder has soaked him and he laughs again, feet splashing, ears flapping, and he invites Gentle-Spark to join them with another half-hearted trunk of water.
Gentle-Spark doesn’t hesitate and he jumps into the stream from his rock perch and carving his hand through the water to send a wave splashing into Bröder’s face and a whole new game is started when he puts his hands on Bröder’s head shoving him, imitating Bröder when he bats his hands against the thunder-foot’s trunk when Bröder makes to swing at him, to grab a hold and yank him backwards; Gentle-Spark losing his balance and tumbling into the stream.
Not-a-thunder-foot laughs; Gentle-spark’s own amusement spills onto his face in bared teeth as he turns to him, hands sweeping the shallows to shower him with a wave of his own making.
The three of them play together; shoving and pushing and wrestling between the shallows and the meadow grass; not-a-thunder-foot answering Gentle-Sparks growls and Bröder’s trumpets with a whistling-pitched roar that shakes the quiet like falling rocks; laughter echoing up from all three of them as the sky-fire burns hot and the river water cools and the wind ruffles not-a-thunder-foot’s wings.
And, Bröder thinks, it’s not like he can keep calling him ‘not-a-thunder-foot.’
It’s not like asking the same question would help either, even if Bröder says his own name over and over; not-a-thunder-foot repeating rather than offering his own.
Maybe their new friend didn’t have a name. But that was okay.
Bröder would just have to give him one.