Days have passed searching for this land of Terrastella. Whispers and rumors of the festivities it boasts, guides the youth closer to its lights. Farther from the warmth of hot sands, and the arid, listless tapestries of the struggling trees that waver with each hot breath. He doubts his place there. The boy feels chased away, even though he hardly had a stake in its kingdom. It was a ghostly feeling, having become transparent and invisible in the land of ‘warriors’. It was unnerving to think that he embraced the sharp pinpricks of winter, the painful movement of the frigid airs rolling off his shoulders. Projecting faint, blurred remembrances of his sire – or the striking longing for his mother. Poignant, and severe in its purchase for his heart.
Would it change one day, he wondered? Would he finally be carved out, without emotion to bear himself forwards?
It seemed the most logical, the easiest path to wander out from. But without a teacher, or a mentor, his dreams for battle and war dwindled with the soft, clumsy snowflakes in the air. In the moment, as Saoirse navigated the heavy atmosphere with his wings, he grappled with the quiet, the softened presence of the drifting snow with amusement. The winds were not so forceful – at that moment. The precipitation, frozen, trickled down softly despite its cool presence on his withers or head.
Alone, he offered a rare and lonesome smile. Swinging from side to side in the spaces that separated him from the rest of life, the earth below– spilled with so many memories, forgotten in white.
Until of course, the coast appeared. Decorated by lights, by the low murmur of voices, of music and laughter. His ears flickered, deep green eyes darted below – startled by its presence. And with that a rogue wind, just the same, caught the boy off guard and struck him side ways. He lost some elevation while recovering, his muscles cold and sore from the travelling. He could see the ground, a plateau level enough to land.
Without finess, or control, he struggled with the swirling currents rising from the ocean side. And fell, stumbling on rocks he couldn’t see below the snow, and the ice that covered them. He shut his eyes when gravity continued its course, pulling his wings tightly against his body. And with a grunt the momentum stopped only a short while against the ground.
The boy huffed, resting on his right side and peaking out into the muddled sky. Billowing with clouds, and cold – and the scent of sweets and spices from the distance.
“This must be it,” he talked allowed. Missing the sound of his voice. “I hope so. But… maybe a… small rest first.”
The snow seemed to lessen here, the winds pushing those bountiful clouds further inland. He cast his eyes skywards, taking in the breaks of open sky. The fading light, the dipping sun as it shrouded everything it touched with a light, gold glimmer.
Brilliantly white, bitterly cold, and starkly beautiful—though lovely, I do not think I will ever grow fond of snow’s harsh embrace, Cyrene mused, a lingering shiver shedding plumes of white powder from her wine-stained shoulders. The girl of autumn had blown into Terrastella with winter’s descent, her arrival bringing the Court’s season of gilded leaves and bountiful harvest to a close. She had encountered snow only once before; Pelion had been nestled in a temperate land, where autumn seemed to last half the year before reluctantly releasing its hold to spring. The winter of Cyrene’s first birthday had been peculiar however, a bizarre torrent of snow blanketing the village seemingly overnight—and melting just as quickly. Yet in those few days of winter-white wonderland, the young filly had frolicked like a newborn fawn, delighted at the frosty phenomenon.
But here, where winter sank its teeth deep into the land for an entire season, Cyrene no longer frolicked with mirth; she shivered with dampened spirit instead. It is true that one grows more weathered with the years, she sighed. Though chilled to her bones, not a tinge of regret could be found in the wood nymph’s heart even as her thin pelt tried desperately to keep out the cold—for she had arrived just a few days shy of Terrastella’s lively winter festival. The citizens of the Court had been consumed with holiday fervor for the upcoming festivities, and new as she was to Novus, Cyrene was never one to miss a chance at attending a raucous celebration.
Not surprisingly, the girl had arrived at the cliffs well before sunset, curiously observing the mirthful Terrastellans as they prepared for the night’s festivities. Roaring bonfires, spicy cider, delicate lanterns—it was dazzling, and she had flitted from stall to stall eager to lend a hand wherever it was needed. As the rays of the setting sun basked the craggy landscape in a glorious, molten glow, Cyrene meandered towards the cliff edge with a cup of piping hot cider floating alongside her slender frame. The vendor she’d aided in carrying crates loaded with apples up the cliffs had insisted on providing her unlimited cider all through the night, and the offer had been too sweet to resist.
Now far from the warmth of the bonfires, the hubbub of celebration drifted away like a dream as Cyrene listened to the crashing of the restless depths below. The howling, salty wind whipped dark tendrils of her curly locks against her neck, yet the red flowers she’d wound in her hair remained stubbornly fixed. Eyes of dim amber gazed down at the black sea, as dark and as endless as a celestial sky. She was made of sunlight and constellations; yet a hurricane churned inside her.
The revelry, the joy. Not once did it ease the aching pain that lingered always in the shadows of her bleeding heart. Sorrow was a ravenous beast—try as she might to appease it with constant laughter, to quell it with feigned happiness, Cyrene could not keep the monster from consuming every last drop of her soul. "It is so much harder,” she whispered, lilting voice uncharacteristically somber, "to be left behind. The departed have it easy.”
Perhaps, if he hadn’t arrived, she would’ve inched her hooves closer towards the crumbling edge, lost in a desolate trance. Perhaps, if his crash landing hadn’t pulled her from her thoughts, the desire to feel the wind against her scarred wings would’ve finally consumed Cyrene whole. But like a messenger from the gods, the silver-coated boy tumbled from the skies; and she didn’t do either of those things. Call it divine intervention or just coincidence—for Cyrene swiftly turned away from the beckoning precipice, and rushed to the dazed boy’s side in hasty concern.
"Are you… alright?” she breathed as she neared him, the bitter ocean air burning in her lungs. He looked young, or at least younger than her, and as her gaze swept over his slender frame for injuries, the boy’s dove gray coat sent a jolt through her chest. It shimmers just as Cygnus’s did. Kneeling down, a warm smile crossed Cyrene’s lips as she pushed the still steaming cup of untouched cider towards him. "You look chilled. Here, some hot cider from the festival—I’ve been promised an unlimited amount for the night, and I plan to take full advantage of that offer. Drink up!”
@Saoirse | notes: long post but I'm excited for them <3
It came in waves, this homesickness. That place that had held his soul from his beginning, and now was forever lost with melting clarity. As he gazed up into the heavens, he wondered why he had even made it this far. What forces had propelled him forward, and for what reasons? The boy couldn’t help the nauseating reel of being the last of his kind, barred from ever returning to the desert shores of the island. Once faithful, hopeful, blinded in his trust, he could no longer ignore the darkness of the world or its place in his soul. Attached and tethered in all the wrong places, wayward and set a drift to nowhere.
He blinked slowly up at the strange mare, unawares, until the sound of rushing hooves crashed against the snow. A wave of embarrassment shot through him, truly realizing his state – and its ‘weak’, pitiful language. Charcoal lips pressed together for a moment, reeling together the emotions sparking off faster than he could capture them. It came with mumbling words, and a weak voice that fought for confidence and calmness.
“A-ah, um, y-yes. I am… I am fine.”
The stranger’s eyes were not as piercing as the winter’s throw. He caught them nonetheless in their assessment, soft – it was strange to think she cared enough to ask. Was it genuine? Hard to say in such lands, but – he thought – he had to be careful regardless.
About to rally his body up, he paused just as he righted himself up. Darkened limbs set to propel his body upwards, when she made to kneel down beside him. He gave the floating object of her cup a perplexed expression. A sharp frown and worried brows – not yet accustomed to this simple magic bestowed to them all.
“How… how are you doing that? What… Cider…” He shook his head for a short moment, closing his eyes and opening them. The steaming cup was still there, floating in mid air and giving off the most peculiar scent. Of ripened apples, homely spices and… warmth that perhaps, would soothe more than just the frigid grip surrounding them.
The boy finally regarded his companion. Her natural smile, and kind eyes; it was almost whole-heartedly believable. Accepting kindness these days came with hidden costs however. A price, or consequence he wasn’t quite sure how to tread on. He was a foreigner after all… he should be more careful than he wanted to.
Pale, red marked wings shuffled in hesitation, while her bronze figure nestled into the snow. Wasn’t it cold? He thought, allowing his brows to knit in further confusion. The scent continued to waft past his nostrils regardless. And the roaring hunger that had once disappeared during mid-flight filled his gut with ravenous wanting.
“If it’s free,” he clarified, before gesturing his head towards the cup – to him: an apparatus of holding hot liquids. Such novelties did not exist in his past life.
The boy was child like, much like a faun striking out into an open field for the first time. Timid, cautious and suspicious of the one who had offered so freely. Awkward, though hardly realized as he finally tasted the brew. Drawing back and licking his lips, surprised.
“Huh. It’s not that bad.”
The pale body accrued some minor scrapes and bumps along his lower legs. Shallow wounds that must have scraped the rocks on his right shoulder, soaked into the snow that had landed on them. It wasn’t a rush of red that fell from him, merely pooled and attempted to solidify in the cool air. Sooner rather than later, he would feel the mild burns and their inconvenient presence.
In the meantime, he pressed his lips against the cup a second time. Privately delighting in its new taste.
The throbbing pain in her breast had abated—curiosity from the boy’s unexpected arrival had stemmed the monster, for now. Though, it was a shame that she was still so cold. Subduing her shivers as best she could, Cyrene rested her tawny eyes steadfastly on the boy’s wavering expression as she stayed kneeled by his side.
"I am glad,” she replied brightly, delicately disregarding his obvious discomfort. He was young, and naivety still sparked off him in every downturned glance and stuttered syllable—yet he was teetering on the edge of adolescence and adulthood, and she would give him the space he needed to collect himself. As she peered into his clear, emerald eyes, Cyrene recognized a hardness that reflected her own. He already carries a burden far too great for his age.
She did not let her concern show as she flashed another of her classic, rosy smiles towards him. Judging by his surprise of her telekinesis, he must've not originated from these lands. A foreigner overwhelmed by unfamiliar surroundings, just like herself. Cyrene gently lowered the cup of cider towards him before speaking.
"I arrived just a few days ago, so this is quite astonishing to me as well. It’s called telekinesis, I think—the locals mentioned it quite often.” He gazed at the cider warily as she offered it to him, and Cyrene felt a flutter of fondness bloom inside her at his mumbled clarification.
"I’m afraid I cannot charge for cider that I did not pay for myself. What a pity...” Nymph eyes twinkled like the aurum constellations of her wings, as she paused in mock consideration of his payment. “Ah! I know—if you accompany me to the festival, I will consider all debts paid.” Nimble legs raised her slender frame up with ease, and as Cyrene stood, snow cascaded off her wings and hair like a crystallized waterfall.
"And if you come, there’s much more where that came from,” she remarked, noticing the ferocity in which he gulped down the frothy drink. Her keen eyes lingered on the numerous cuts and scrapes that dotted the boy’s silvery body, drops of crimson red staining the unblemished snow like ink on a fresh page. Yet she knew they were not serious, having sustained many herself on a regular basis; and she would not fuss over him like a nursemaid. The boy had already taken enough of a dip to his still fragile sense of confidence.
"My name is Cyrene. What is yours, cider scrounger?” she quipped, amusement dancing in her lion eyes. With a casual touch of her velveteen nose to his side, the starlight girl whispered to the magic within her to subtly aid him to his feet as he stood. This much, she could not keep herself from doing.
“Telekinesis,” he copied her just as she had finished. It rolled off quite swiftly from the edge of his tongue. There were only a few he had known to possess any sort of magic. Gifted by the ‘gods’ – regretfully he was not one of them. Perhaps he had resented them in some way; those ancient bloodlines embedded with the blessings of their creators. Wanting, believing he needed such things to find any validation in that world. To be something great and strong – their leaders, after all, possessed these traits. His friends – they too, were immersed in the blessings of their fore bearers.
And he was without.
Though no more.
The boy raised a brow as her eyes glimmered underneath their veil. Playful, as she teased blatantly of the debt he owed. Moving with a natural finesse to stand, and heralding their call to the festival. “I was going there anyways.” He clarified, before hauling his bruised body up. Purposefully splashing and shaking the clumps of snow in every which way, in the hopes it might splash against the stranger. Saoirse pressed a minute, small grin along the edges of his lips – fading quickly with the time.
“Do they have other drinks?” He considered the mug on the ground. With – perhaps too much excitement nestled deep and away from (her) prying eyes – he instinctively pulled the mug up from the ground. And – flung it way over the side of the cliff edge not too far along. “Hah!” It was inevitable that the boy’s excitement spilled out from his eyes. Where wonder and discovery pushed the longing for home and family, far from his thoughts then. “Did you see that? I didn’t mean to. Not that hard…” He collected himself together, when she pressed her muzzle against his side. Casting her a disapproving frown that bordered precariously on a pout, as she substituted him for ‘cider scrounger’ instead.
“It’s Saoirse.” His voice filled the air with a resolute firmness. Tilting his head just so, to carry that bent and backwards crown a little higher. “Cyrene,” the boy nods curtly, stiff, glancing up ahead to view the fires.
He could not recognize her invisible, helping hand. And though he mulled over her previous concerns and hospitality, perhaps he didn’t mind the company after all. “I only heard rumors about the festival. Something about… new beginnings, or something silly like that.”
Saoirse wouldn’t have been able to explain why he continued to divulge such thoughts. All he knew was that, he’d grown tired of his own voice in his head. And that the sky – although a precarious friend – was far too expansive and consuming to reciprocate any such love or friendship in return. Not that he had made this a priority – it was merely ‘nice’ to have a change. Change that didn’t involve life or death situations for once.
Stemming the amusement from her too-bright eyes as best she could, Cyrene tried in vain to fix a stern pout upon unruly lips as the boy shook frigid clods of snowmelt every which way, the majority conveniently aimed her way.
They fell like spring raindrops against her crimson skin—gentle and teasing. Hmph, is this how I am to be repaid for my precious cider? With a smooth flick of her wings, the girl leapt lightly back a few paces to evade his sneaky attack. Wild sable curls reluctantly settled in some semblance of order back around her doe-like neck, as she lifted a condemning eyebrow in his direction.
What a cheeky one.
“Do they have other drinks?”
"As much as your heart desires—though I’m afraid most are not as… innocent as cider,” she hinted, amber eyes dancing along the frost-stained earth until they rested amusedly on the forgotten, lonely cup. Though if it’s liquor he seeks, I will not stomp on his fun.
Lion eyes that glinted like honeyed mead smoothly surveyed the boy’s cautious attempts at flexing his newfound powers. As the whispering wind laced its bony fingers savagely through her silken feathers, Cyrene watched as his magic struggled like a fawn on ice, stumbling and skidding every which way until, at last, with a whoosh! the ill-fated mug flew up and over the barren cliffs.
"Perhaps by the end of the night you’ll wield it more expertly than I.” A muted smile pressed against upturned lips, as his endearing excitement saturated his emerald eyes like dawn’s shy ascent above night-soaked mountains. Keen eyes dimmed as they silently observed a shattered sliver of his stolen innocence tumble across the boy's solemn, time-worn shoulders.
She hoped he would smile more often. She prayed that destiny had taken enough from him.
"Then, let us go, Saoirse—I shall show you that the festival is leagues more enchanting than its rumors do it justice,” she sang, curls echoing her will as they bobbed along in agreement.
Yet as she caught the rest of his softly muttered words, Cyrene glanced away in solemn thought. Distractedly, her nebulous gaze rested upon something far, far away, her silvery voice lowering to an echo; as if what she murmured was not intended for Saoirse’s ears to detect. Not for anyone’s ears to detect.
"I have realized… that beginnings elude you when you need them most. So when they come, cherish them. The Fates are prickly goddesses—they will not serve you twice.”
An ever flickering flame, her composure returned to her between one breath and the next—and as Cyrene turned to him again, a bright, ebullient smile settled itself with a sigh upon her incandescent lips. "The drinks must be cooling under our noses as we dawdle. Hurry along!”
He ignores the sound of his namesake, chafing against the air. Despite her sing song, or the smoothness of her tones that weave into the periphery. His namesake is foreign and alien to his ears when said aloud – hardly sung, the boy leaves its harsh, underlying defiance behind him with a nod. Setting his cool, emerald eyes ahead on the lights crested along the cliffs. Perhaps he will loose himself there, erased from history and casted along in a sea of gold and fire.
The youth moves, quickens his pace, unburdened by the wounds of his descent. Carrying himself forward with poise swallowed up in boyish wonder. An air of certainty guiding his footfalls against the elusive path of the rock and supple moisture, on mere delight and abandon alone. He squeezed his wings tight against his sides, for he could feel their desire to swell with the enchanting rise of the winds, and their mysterious rhythm that followed the voices ahead in chorus. At this time the heavy clouds had all but moved on, providing open sky and a wide berth set out by the horizon. It seemed to reach out and caress their skin, drawing them closer to the festivities ahead.
It set a flame in the pool of his eyes. For he tried in vain to restrain his desire to explore the grounds, and how it awoken something within him – unknown. He cast his gaze back towards Cyrene, as if she might anchor him from that unknown. Oblivious to the mare’s turn in countenance, or the weight of her words fallen from her tongue. Their gravity of composure too weak, - despite its truths – were sent spinning in opposite directions.
“The drinks must be cooling under our noses as we dawdle. Hurry along!”
A grunt escapes the youth. He’s reassured of her bubbling enthusiasm, held back by the enigmatic glow of her eyes. “I heard you the first time,” he chastises. Willing his limbs faster, as to challenge her in the last few legs. It’s not far enough to twist and wind about the step – for they arrive sooner than the boy expects. And immediately injects himself into the cacophony of the crowds. Slowing fast enough to avoid bumping into the civilians. These smells are none that he has ever smelt before – but they make his mouth water nonetheless. His body shivers under the presence of light and warmth.
The boy wanders without realizing he has begun to. Following the movements of practiced dancers, souls seducing one another – bodies shifting to their own rhythm. Finding his voice, he searches for the woodland fae and speaks. A thought has struck its path beyond the novelties unearthed before him. “Where do we start?”
He followed the sweet scent of pastries carried from one stranger to the other. Licking his lips momentarily. It seemed as if his senses were all at once put on high alert, and every tantalizing sound and smell drove him farther, and farther away from his small beginnings. Becoming energized by these subtle nuances.
It hadn’t seemed possible for the festival to grow ever more raucous, ever more wondrous, in Cyrene’s brief absence—yet as she nestled herself back into its kaleidoscope of smells and shouts and laughter, she marveled at how rapidly it had spread its lantern-lit embrace across all of Terrastella. With a hearty inhale, a cheshire smile wound itself around flushed cheeks as the autumn girl weighed the particularly serious question of which booth to visit first.
Everywhere she turned, mouthwatering scents of sugared chestnuts, candied apples, and honeyed wine wafted about her like golden butterflies; each tugging and pulling and whispering for her to chase after their gilded, fluttering wings. "You must be famished,” she hummed, golden eyes flashing thoughtfully towards the dove-feathered boy that trailed close behind her. Quickly, however, Cyrene’s fleeting gaze zipped away and perched upon a bustling booth just a few paces east.
"Over there—they sell the most wonderful honey cakes, I’ve not a clue how the syrup oozes out like it does, but you must try it—" Like a wine glass toppling over, she could not keep her zeal from spilling out as crimson wings gestured towards the stall with its buzzing crowd of eager festival goers. Yet as she looked back towards Saoirse’s emerald gaze, there was only air to greet her in the place he had stood moments before.
"What—where did he go?” Clucking her tongue, Cyrene sighed as she watched her glacial breath dissipate into the frosty night. "I lost him so quickly.” No matter—he would not have wandered far, and so she resolved to find him later, with delicious treats in tow. As she waited patiently—or as patient as Cyrene could manage—for the treats, her thoughts wandered back to the things that had transpired in their short encounter. Though the boy’s solemn words and discerning gaze had rendered him mature far beyond his years, the flashing spark of boyhood still glowed within his woodland eyes. She saw it in glimpses; a muted smile there, a subtle hush of excitement and lingering innocence there.
And in his soft grey feathers and playful, grumbling jabs, she saw Cygnus—startlingly clear. She could not help it. Too clearly did she see the ghost of her sister hiding in the shadows of Saoirse’s lithe frame. When she offered him cider, when she lifted him to his feet—a dark part of her had wished it was Cygnus. Her sister's death was an open wound in Cyrene's chest that refused to close; no matter what she did, how far she traveled, the sorrow would never unsheathe its blade-like claws from her bleeding heart.
"Saoirse!” She was certain that she had seen a flash of grey through the riotous crowd. Swiftly, Cyrene tucked her wings tightly against her side as she weaved and ducked her way through the labyrinth of drunken guests. As she emerged, breathless, lion eyes widened as her hunch proved correct. There he was, lost to the scents and the colors of the festival’s intoxicating grasp. "It’s quite something, isn’t it? The festival.” Sable curls rustled in agreement as she tilted her head towards him. "I managed to snatch the last ones, what luck,” the girl sang, as two oozing honey cakes floated deliciously in front of him, golden syrup dripping in sticky rivulets.
"Time to put that telekinesis to work if you want one.”
@Saoirse | notes: so sorry for the delay! D: ahh I adore them as well <3
