Maybe she should have just let him be, the man with a heart lost in a thought she could never have--at least, not yet, not there with him--and wouldn't understand even if she could have learned of all that plagued him. In all her travels never had she stayed long enough to learn of anything, save the historical elements and basic facts each world had to offer. Already there were so many new things presented her there, just with him alone.

The one she didn't know was a King.

So as their eyes stayed on each other's for moments that turned into a loss of time (his depthless, desperate shine pulling her in, seeming to beg her to just keep looking, just don't let go...), she learned what face 'forlorn' wore. She should have felt almost guilty for interrupting his quest for a thing she didn't know of, but likewise she was on one of her own and at that space where they stood perhaps he was the only one who could help her. The smoke of put-out fire still lingered in the air behind him some ways, and it wasn't difficult to put the signs together: he had left hastily, ruffled hair and sad but wild eyes, coat thrown on to trek through the cool night. She had seen many do it before, and even had done it several times herself when she needed breaks from long, dreary studying without but a minute's rest. But he was doing more than simply meandering outside for quick breath; he was going, and he probably would have kept along his path had she not stopped him. If she could have understood guilt, it was likely she would have felt it then.

Her words had seemed to push him away from her, off to somewhere much further than she could follow. She recognized the look, the small waver in his features telling her that he was thinking of things from the past, into the future, anywhere except where they were currently. They had just met, but she could already tell he was a traveler like her, in a different way. He used his mind, his emotions, to visit previous memories and jump forward into time to fabricate things that haven't happened yet, reacting to made-up scenarios, perhaps digging himself into a hole that hadn't needed shoveling in the first place. She saw no point in pulling up the past--no one could change what happened (not even most gods, or they simply didn't want to); likewise, the future was unclear and save for those who could predict specific events, all that led to that moment was mutable. She would likely never allow herself such frivolous things as 'wishing.'

He seemed to bid her well, and she nodded once in return. With her wings tucked against her sides, the 'Asterion' pushed onward, moving beyond her, and she watched but said nothing. She would not stop him a second time, for really he had already answered her questions. If it was time to move on, then she would do the same. Maybe it would have been better for her to fly back to what had been called the Dawn Court, the area in which she first landed, to stay in a slightly more familiar area until she sorted out her thoughts on where she was. So in a flurry she snapped her wings out, cape billowing as though a strong breeze brushed around it, when his voice flitted to her once again. Curiously, Forseti turned quad-horns to glance at him, ceasing her motions and pondering his words. She didn't know what 'lonely hour' meant--time was an abstract thing, it couldn't feel--but maybe he was really referring to himself with some sort of allusion.

"Do you know what you seek?" She had settled back into line with him, choosing to stay rather than leave. Was he asking for help in his quest, or inquiring if she would look for her own alongside him? There was no inkling of worry or doubt in her breast that his intentions were honest; she had known others that could put on faux visages and turn themselves into things they weren't, but had a sense of honor to him that Forseti saw no reason not to trust. "Where do you go, when you get such a melancholy look in your eyes?" Of course it was quite clear that she meant metaphorically, so she felt no need to explain her questions. She didn't know where they would be headed, but she seemed content enough to stride beside his smaller frame to wherever it might have been.

Vultures circle overhead

people love to watch a wreck

Asterion hears the soft rustle of the spread of her wings just before he looks back, and finds her poised again for flight. Oh, he envies those proud wings and the way they open the world to her! But it is well that he has never possessed his own, for there would be no hope of him lingering anywhere long enough for it to become home. The king has always had a wanderer’s heart, a dreamer’s heart, but it beats in a rhythm he can no longer follow.

He belongs to Terrastella as much as it does to him.

Part of him wants to watch her fly, to see what those mighty limbs could do - but he is growing glad not to be alone. Even if he can give her no straight answers (except his name, and even that feels half a lie without King before it), she is a distraction from the turmoil of his thoughts, and the cold wind on his face feels less hungry with a warm presence by his side.

So he is glad when she settles in beside him, and does nothing to hide the smile, soft as the frost that would silver the grounds with dawn. They are still the only souls on the wide and leaf-blown streets, save the crickets still singing in the fields and the distant, mournful call of an owl.

“No,” he answers, and there is no sign that the unknowing bothers him. They are traveling a path he knows well, now, one he has trod in darkness and light, driving rain and summer-bright sun, and all the long grasses of the meadow nod their heads as the pair passes by. “But I hope to know it when I find it.” He doesn’t expect to, not tonight, not when he has no name for what he looks for but a way to mend the ragged edges of his heart. The only cure he knows - has ever known - is saltwater and starlight.

Now that they are moving again, now that the empty room with the dying fire and the drying ink is growing further behind him, Asterion feels less like a wild thing. He almost wants to laugh at her following question, for he can imagine his golden sister pointing out his melancholy look - he has never been good at keeping his own secrets, at schooling his expression. At lying at all. “To the sea.” He regards her for a moment, breathes deeply of crisp midnight air already scented with salt, with brine. “Follow me, and I will show you.” He may be a king (though he still sees no reason to tell this stranger as much; they may both keep their anonymity) but the words are still offering, not request.

And when, a moment later, he gives in to the low-tolling pain in his heart, his words are soft and low. “What do you know of love, Forseti?”

Maybe they will each have answers yet, before the dawn finds them.

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@Forseti |  we can close here if you like (and start a new one on the cliffs?) or keep going! your call <3