He still finds himself more comfortable under the cloak of nightfall, allowing pieces of himself to stray and become untouchable, wisps of darkness at the edges of his body. The violet and indigo strands of his mane fade into nothingness, mere shadow intertangling into the true night that has fallen across Tephra. His time spent mimicking the monsters that ran beneath the eclipse left him grasping to the final hours of nightfall, reluctant to watch the sun burn its way through the horizon far too soon. There is tension across the broad of his back and shoulders as he accompanies her, the shadow that once played at the edges of his skin becoming more writhing and alive as if he were to cloak himself in its camouflage at any moment.
Aela had sought him out (would she always?) and like clockwork - for it is the only thing he really knows to do, besides darkness and shedding his skin - he follows. Even when their trek through the witching hours of night led him to a familiar path that he had assumed he had long since forgotten; even when it became all too clear where they were headed. His emotions are blanketed beneath the indiscernibility of his expressionless face, but as the deep orange glow of the lava begins to illuminate them both, there is no hiding the agitation that is rife within his brilliant eyes - seemingly brought to life by the lava itself.
The silence that settles over them is not something that is unfamiliar; the pair do well within the moments when they are not speaking and for that Skandar is thankful. He is not eloquent in his words (his actions always spoke louder and were more apt to get his point across) and it is something that Aela seems to understand, if not prefer. Even in their relaxed quiet Skandar can feel a pinprick of uncertainty trickle across his spine. What did Aela have planned? There is no love lost within the jungle or the black sand beaches of his boyhood home. Skandar does, however, understand Aela’s demands and how her desires are things he can inhabit for her - and that is why she calls to him; for what else would the reason be that she comes to him in the middle of the night, secretive and elusive?
As her face turns up at the volcano, Skandar finds that his expression has gone sour beneath its glow. He curves his neck as they come to a halt, refusing to give the symbol of his childhood a second glance. Aela can feel his displeasure, knowing that his thoughts and memories are hers to experience. He remembers loneliness beneath the volcano; inadequacy, an embarrassment to the royal family - a bastard child hidden in secrecy.
So he looks to her, as he has always done, and the rage that simmers in the hard angles of his face becomes molten though they do not lose their sharp edge. He snaps his teeth together with a dull sound (a habit that came from his years in darkness, like a ravenous shadow creature) in response as if her question had somehow offended him. As if he could forget. It had been a defining moment for him. He snorts sharply, ears flicking back idly - had it been the same for her? He grimaces, hiding his face momentarily with the nearby shadow.
“I do,” he admits to her and though his voice is quiet on the night air, there is a firmness etched into it - unwavering, unfailing.
skandar
@Aela