05-29-2021, 06:38 AM
some memories never leave your bones.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
Time aches where he stands. And Leoniidas aches with it. Oh his magic and his grief grapple, there, in his soul. Outside of his body the air trembles with magic. But this fae-boy was born when time stood still. At his beginning the boy knew nothing but silence and stillness. Time had run dry like a river. It ceased to exist as all fell as still as a painting. Now he is the one as still as stone, whilst the world around him plays out its fate.
Upon the edge of the rocky outcrop he stands, cradled deep, deep in the dark of the woodland. The shadows of reaching trees mute the brilliant gold of him. He turns dark, dark, dark. His skin akin to the bark upon the trees, his gilded feathers and brace of antlers little more than the mellow glow of a wilting tulip. But he does not care how the darkness steals his brilliance. Neither does the boy care how the darkness turns him from a stag of the wood to an eagle perched upon a cliff’s edge, waiting, watching.
Leoniidas listens. He hears the whispering of the wood and his angled head tilts. Golden eyes flit to a space between the trees where another horse roams, out of sight yet heard as loudly as a tolling bell. The forest lets no one creep unheard, not when she lays her traps of dry twigs and crisp leaves. Time slips against his skin, begging, begging, but it cannot decide for what - to stop or to run and run and run. The air turns sweet with the tang of blooming magic. Flowers bloom open all across the forest floor below his perch, all the woodland groans with life as it blooms and grows about the feral boy.
As the stranger steps out into the clearing (where the grasses now reach long and tall and flowers gaze with open faces up to the forest sky) Leoniidas rises from his grouch. As he goes he seems to shed the vestiges of childhood, the sharper, stronger lines of adulthood accenting along the line of his jaw and flare of his shoulders. The fae-boy says nothing, but stands and drinks in every line and curve and inch of the stranger below, limning them in the gold of his bright eyes.
@[Ratty] for one of your children <3