Ion draws comfort from the small companion nestled into the thick fur at the ruff of his neck. Though he is practically weightless, the flutter of his small body tells him Wren is there, watching. Uncertain. Wren had been his guide in the afterlife - the same one to guide his brother when he had been born still and lifeless. Now he serves as the only remaining link to the other half of his soul. It’s foolish, really, but he thinks he might give his own life to save Wren if needed.
Fortunately it has never been asked of him.
His declaration had not been a well-considered one, and as he stares at her, he thinks of a hundred things he might have said instead. If only he had a quicker tongue. But it seems to amuse her, and Ion is curious. She declares that they do not have diplomats or armies. Ion’s lips twitch at this, as though he might offer a smile which never quite manifests. “I am neither a diplomat or a warrior,” Ion replies. And he is not. He hasn’t the glibness of tongue or friendliness one needed to be the first, nor did he have drive for the second. He might fight in a moment of feral forgetfulness, but rarely is it a conscious decision.
For a moment, he wraps the night around him, finding comfort in its familiarity. He is not accustomed to such polite conversation. A conversation in which neither party have ulterior motives. It seems an odd thing to grow accustomed to, but as he stares at Mazikeen, he knows without doubt it is odd. Finally, he continues, “A place to belong...” He breathes out, the exhale escaping as a soft chuff. “I think is exactly what I have been seeking.” He wants to smile then, but does not. Not when he knows it would appear stiff and unnatural on a mouth that so rarely smiles. “I’m Ion.”
ion
in the empty of the grave, only distant dreams remain
@Mazikeen