"You were real."
He flicks his ears uncertainly, caught off guard because for a time he thought she was not real. He had learned the truth when he looked through the eyes of a crow and saw the twist of her horn gleaming against the stone streets of Denocte. Maybe he should have sent a message before his arrival, but it had not occurred to him that he would have seemed a dream. It doesn't matter now anyway. They stand before each other once again, this time more knowing. "You are real." His heart is a hummingbird in his throat."Yes."
When her mind blooms it nearly breaks him. He dreamed of her for nights on end but his dreaming mind could not compare to the intricacy of her waking one, not in a thousand years. He doesn't want to drown, he wants to swim. He wants to want to swim.
"It is more beautiful now," her breath is a song, and heat rises to his face where her words tickle his cheek. He looks away sheepishly, and he sees the small dragons twine together above them. Briefly he wonders what it would be like, if they were dragons.
"Are you afraid?" He asks silently, as he wraps his mind around hers, cradles it for a sweet moment. She sets his magic on fire-- if it had its way it would sink deep down into her and seize her memories and her stories and her essence. It would learn what color is the core of her, beyond titles and circumstance and history. He holds himself back because it feels like a dangerous thing, somehow, like stepping through a door from which you can never turn back. The effort it takes to pull away almost steals the breath from his chest.
He does not want to consume her.
Not in that way, not here or now.
He thinks of snow and buffalo and the quiver of her voice when she demanded his name. He had enjoyed being commanded, the clarity of it. She asks her question now politely, as he had just politely asked if she had time to walk with him. Briefly he is overcome with longing to be alone together, to make demands of one another. Instead he swallows and inclines his head, and they politely begin to walk through the night market. He had expected her to lead him but if she does it is almost imperceptible. It seems more like they lead each other, if it is even possible to lead when there is no destination.
"Your home is so full of life and sound and color," he leans into her gently, so that his quiet voice may be heard over the market sounds. "Magic and mystery. It feels like walking through a dream,"
(Not his dreams, all concrete and tar and smoke. Not anything he could ever even imagine, but something like what the moon must dream up when she sleeps. Something to make herself smile.)
He is quiet for a while after that. Words don't come easily to him, at least not the right ones. It takes time to sift through the silt, piece together what it is he really wants to say. Time has an indistinct quality here, as it should in a dream, measured only by the brush of flesh on flesh as they sway into each other then away again, two souls adrift in a vast ocean. When he speaks again it is as though he never stopped.
"like here I could be anyone." His smile is small and a little sad. This pause is much shorter than the last-- his mind was never good at lingering himself. "Everything here reminds me of you in some way, even the marks the ocean left." Later he will realize how quiet (not silent) his demons are against the sound of steel on stone.
E I K
of white flames and memories
He flicks his ears uncertainly, caught off guard because for a time he thought she was not real. He had learned the truth when he looked through the eyes of a crow and saw the twist of her horn gleaming against the stone streets of Denocte. Maybe he should have sent a message before his arrival, but it had not occurred to him that he would have seemed a dream. It doesn't matter now anyway. They stand before each other once again, this time more knowing. "You are real." His heart is a hummingbird in his throat."Yes."
When her mind blooms it nearly breaks him. He dreamed of her for nights on end but his dreaming mind could not compare to the intricacy of her waking one, not in a thousand years. He doesn't want to drown, he wants to swim. He wants to want to swim.
"It is more beautiful now," her breath is a song, and heat rises to his face where her words tickle his cheek. He looks away sheepishly, and he sees the small dragons twine together above them. Briefly he wonders what it would be like, if they were dragons.
"Are you afraid?" He asks silently, as he wraps his mind around hers, cradles it for a sweet moment. She sets his magic on fire-- if it had its way it would sink deep down into her and seize her memories and her stories and her essence. It would learn what color is the core of her, beyond titles and circumstance and history. He holds himself back because it feels like a dangerous thing, somehow, like stepping through a door from which you can never turn back. The effort it takes to pull away almost steals the breath from his chest.
He does not want to consume her.
Not in that way, not here or now.
He thinks of snow and buffalo and the quiver of her voice when she demanded his name. He had enjoyed being commanded, the clarity of it. She asks her question now politely, as he had just politely asked if she had time to walk with him. Briefly he is overcome with longing to be alone together, to make demands of one another. Instead he swallows and inclines his head, and they politely begin to walk through the night market. He had expected her to lead him but if she does it is almost imperceptible. It seems more like they lead each other, if it is even possible to lead when there is no destination.
"Your home is so full of life and sound and color," he leans into her gently, so that his quiet voice may be heard over the market sounds. "Magic and mystery. It feels like walking through a dream,"
(Not his dreams, all concrete and tar and smoke. Not anything he could ever even imagine, but something like what the moon must dream up when she sleeps. Something to make herself smile.)
He is quiet for a while after that. Words don't come easily to him, at least not the right ones. It takes time to sift through the silt, piece together what it is he really wants to say. Time has an indistinct quality here, as it should in a dream, measured only by the brush of flesh on flesh as they sway into each other then away again, two souls adrift in a vast ocean. When he speaks again it is as though he never stopped.
"like here I could be anyone." His smile is small and a little sad. This pause is much shorter than the last-- his mind was never good at lingering himself. "Everything here reminds me of you in some way, even the marks the ocean left." Later he will realize how quiet (not silent) his demons are against the sound of steel on stone.
E I K
of white flames and memories
@Isra
Time makes fools of us all
