The snow was just beginning to fall, bringing with it an immediate drop in temperature. It felt good, soothing even; soothing the aches and sores from sleeping on uneven ground with a single caress. Aion was used to the cold. In times like these, he even craved it.
It gave him something to fight against.
And that rejuvenated him, as though bringing him back to the living after a deep, deep slumber. The sting of a frosty wind biting into his cheek was akin to a slap bringing him back to his senses, refocusing him. Giving him a new pain to focus on, one of his body and not of his heart.
A soft cough coming from the side brought him back to the present, his musings on the winter weather forgotten. The artist was finished. Aion craned his head back to study the intricate pattens painted across his skin, sweeping across his back and down his withers to his right leg. He’d never had as good an eye for art as Eros; but the lines were straight and symmetrical, and they looked good to him. He thanked the painter, but didn’t smile; without caring to stop and see any of the other designs being inked onto the bodies of the partygoers, he left the painting area.
Equines breezed past him in twos and threes, their voices and laughter carrying high on the wind. But Aion walked alone, without a companion twined against him like the other couples. He didn’t stop to interact with the other guests, hardly gave any of them a glance. There was not a single person on this entire continent that he’d want to take the time for, and he was no longer in the business of pretending there was.
He came to a stop outside the confines of the party, the soft sounds of music coming dully to him on the wind. ’Why am I even still here?’ He had debated leaving; he’d left his note already, but Aion wasn’t interested in some of the other traditions the Terrastellan festival offered. Not even the stargazing going on in the fields had tempted him; he was afraid it would hurt too much, like it was a betrayal to go without his partner.
He crushed the snow with one dark hoof, slowly, deliberately, as if stalling for time. As little as he wanted to be here tonight, he didn’t exactly have anywhere else to be.
so darling, darling stand by me
ohh stand by me, stand by me
Winter sings in ice crystals that cling to the wild of her hair, her skin. The starlight of her mane is threaded with cold and made untame by flurries that swirl around her legs and along her body. And under the dying light, the ebony of her skin becomes a night sky — snowflakes land on her like stars, before melting away at the touch of heat that burns below the surface of black silk. Her wings are tucked in close, so so close, that the soft feathers brush along her sides in sweet caresses that chase away the cold that lingers. But she cannot help but stare heavensward as the sky opens, weeping in falling snow. The beauty of it steals her breath, and all at once she finds that in the heart of a new kingdom, she does not yet feel the urge to leave. Not yet.
In the midst of the city, the stormsinger is spellbound; her hooves cling to the stones beneath her as if iced over, frosted to the spot. She does not realize that a painter has found her, let alone begun their work on the canvas that is her skin. Their paintbrushes are smooth along the curves of her muscles and down to the ivory of her legs, and only when they step back to marvel at her, does she curve her neck to take in the artwork on her body. She cannot help but smile softly, for from the tattooed constellations along the arch of her neck, the artists have expanded the star-map across her sides. Down her spine dances a galaxy in stark white and brilliant blue, and suddenly she has become a breathing Calligo. A daughter of her goddess's darkness, laid out in violet and rosy stars that expand over her entire frame.
Her smile is genuine as she departs, the shadows that encompass her only accentuating the stars that have become apart of her, if only temporarily. She melts into the gathering shadows, becoming one with the darkness at the edges of the city's walls. For a moment, her mind wanders, thinking of her daydreamer, her prince, who calls the boundary of this city's walls home. Then to Florentine, the honeyed queen, and then to her lover. Her King. But as quick as the thoughts enter, she shies away from them; with chains laden in silver and gold and stardust, the stormsinger binds them. Tonight.. she will not think of such things. Not now.
Now, she edges along the fray of festival goers. The city's walls pulse with music that drums with the beats of her heart, constricting her lungs with both longing and nostalgia. But something holds her still; be it the frost that holds her, or the falling snow that continues to enthrall her, she does not know. All she knows is that the bright blue of her gaze falls on a stranger who, like her, does not join the revelry. Once upon a time, she would have joined the dancers until dawn kissed the horizon. But not this night; for she toes closer to him, wary, but curious. Her eyes rove over the wondrous lines painted over his coat; and she follows them, like a treasure map. She cannot help but come to stand next to him, with smoke and stars hugging her close.
There is a cautious but soft chaos that writhes under her voice in murmurs, but she does not balk. Suddenly bold, either from newfound confidence painted onto her skin or something else, she speaks. "It seems the painters have been making living art of all their patrons," she says softly, her eyes like crystals. "I apologize. I don't mean to intrude," Aislinn finishes, dipping her crown in respect to the stranger glad in blue and silver.
@aion -boop- I hope you don't mind me throwing Ash in here c: ♡
"Aislinn speech."
The crunch of hooves on snow was subtle behind him, yet distinct. Loud enough to alert Aion several paces of listening before he had company. To give him several paces of absolute dread, every fiber of his being wishing the intruder away. His head dropped subconsciously, black-and-white speckled ears falling backwards into his crown of feathers.
“Then you shouldn’t have,” he cuts her off curtly, resisting the urge to look over at her. Instead, he caught a glimpse from the corner of his eye, barely perceptible. She was shorter than him, a dark bat coloring turning her face and neck black. The white mane that spilled over her poll was bright and vibrant against her, and against the darkness that surrounded them. He looked away.
Silence returns, stretching on between them.
A younger version of him would not have been so curt as this. He would have danced with his words, a false nicety laced into every breath. Aion can still see his 4 year old self in his mind, although a stranger now in both appearance and tact. That version had cared so much more about public image and respect than he did now. He had been red once, brilliantly colored, before the worries of the world had turned his face and heart black. The world, too, had been brighter, and far more welcoming, hope laying on every horizon and greeting him with every sunrise.
Now everything was faded into black and white, much like himself. As hard as the painters had tried to add color to him, he looked better without.
“The painters can't always help themselves. Their job is to find beauty, after all.” He had not meant to break the silence; had he? It seemed like a betrayal of himself to give her a reason to stay, or give himself a distraction from the melancholy thoughts that had taken over his mind. But his voice had a mind of its own tonight, as if inspired by the new look he’d been given tonight. The tattoo ink bled down past his skin, invading his arteries and veins, filling the spaces in his heart. His resolve was already slipping away… he always had been ruled by his heart and his emotions. There was no sense in denying it here, where everyone else seemed the same.
Only now did Aion look at her, shifting his head sideways so that he could see the stormsinger clearly. The night sky was her skin; all the painters had to do was fill it with stars. His eyes followed the many patterns of constellations strewn across her body at whim, wonder seeping into his icy eyes as he tried to discern what was skin and what was tattoo. “It’s like the skies have come alive on you tonight.” His voice was little more than a whisper, lost as he was in the canvas she had become.
The paint looked best on her.
All he had to boast were some colors and flecks smeared across his shoulders and chest, a crude attempt at capturing the spring wind (spring for Eros, not himself). But Aion had controlled the wind once, had bent it to his will; he knew words and pictures couldn’t do it justice.
Pulling himself back together took no small effort. “Surely you have somewhere better to be tonight? Parties aren’t meant to be attended alone, you know.” Maybe he was talking more to himself than her now; something had shifted inside, unlocking one of the chains constricting his heart. He had returned his gaze back to some dark, unidentifiable spot in the distance; but one ear was tilted back towards her now, listening and waiting.
so darling, darling stand by me
ohh stand by me, stand by me
His words are a nip of frostbite on her skin; cold and numb, as she momentarily stiffens at the shock of it. She retreats, pausing, as the blue of her gaze searches the stranger's face. For a moment, she wonders why; her curiosity is that of a child, just barely, but enough for her to stay. He was a statue of a painted marble to her, and the sudden icy demeanor of his should have been enough for her to realize that she was not wanted here. The silence that grows between them only stretches and expands — a pregnant galaxy of stars that hang on the edge of their collective quiet.
But yet, she does not turn away.
It's like the skies have come alive on you tonight.
Aislinn is bound by the snowflakes that slowly fall, and the darastic change in the silver man before her. Confusion settles upon her like the stars dusted in shocks of color across her frame. She cannot help but feel drawn; be it from the soft shifts of snow that weep from the clouds above, or the mysteries of this man at her side. All she has gathered is this — his voice, and the magic that has been painted over her in hues of Asterion's twilight and Calligo's beloved shadows. If she had been graced with her mother Luna's moondust instead of the ebony dark of deep space, the stormsinger's blush would not be hidden on her cheeks. Instead, she thinks of the stars trailing her spine, as she averts her gaze downwards and finds the whorls of color on his own skin. How simple it could be, that the canvas of their bodies have become an outward mirror of their souls on this night.
The galaxy between them has begun to close, and with it, she speaks, suddenly bold. "I am not the only wonder they have painted." Her voice is surprisingly soft, careful, as she stands wary of the hidden emotions in his icy gaze. The warmth that sticks to her skin despite the cold tastes of woodsmoke and sugar and beating drums like fingers that send gooseflesh down her legs. They are so very close to the fray. But yet, together they could be no further than light years away from the crowds that pulse in the embers of burning pyres and song. What is she to do, but wait with a cautious hand outstretched?
Surely you have somewhere better to be tonight?
Her heart constricts against the rose vines that entwine it; bleeding against the pin-pricks of longing that are the thorns. The falling sun reminds her of her lover, her prince.. and a dagger of want and daydreams twists in her chest. But courage has not found her, and she cannot find the strength to face him. Not on this night. So she turns to him fully, admiring the colors splashed across his chest and shoulders, and meets the ice of his eyes with the flames of her own. If he turns her away, so be it.. but for now, she reaches out a phantom hand. An offering, as the corner of her lip curls ever soft as the snow that floats around them. "But I am not alone," she notes, "you're here. Unless.. unless, you are waiting for someone."
They are strangers, and yet, she cannot find it in herself to walk away.
@aion bloop ♡ I'm so sorry for the awfulness, this is all over the place D:
"Aislinn speech."
He’s surprised she didn’t go; he would have, had their roles been reversed. Insolence was his favorite face to wear, one he had spent countless hours rehearsing, perfecting, practicing obsessively to ensure he got it just right. His words were cold, his tone colder still; his eyes, blue though they were, threw daggers at any who dared to meet them head-on, a warning clearly expressed in the stiff stance to not get too close. Yet she chose to do so anyway, ignoring the frost he emanated as if it made no difference to her, as if the stars she bore across her body were used already to enduring their own brand of coldness. It intrigued him — the familiar pull of curiosity a temptation he did not wish to feel. Distractions were only that, a distraction; he knew they would suffocate him if he allowed them to. He didn’t have time to ask strangers why they reacted the way they did, nor the time to care.
Yet still, he already had taken the time to pause, to stand solitary and unyielding. It would be harder now to walk away than to let her stay — even when he wished to be alone.
Did he still wish to be alone? Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to finally have some company again… Even knowing he couldn’t replace the face he desperately wanted to see. Maybe Eros would be proud of him for at least putting in the effort? He always had tried to convince him to make friends, not enemies.
He flinched as she spoke, turning ever so slightly to hide his face from her. She couldn’t possibly have known what he’d asked the artists to paint, the vision he’d given them to capture. She couldn’t know how painful it was for him to even look at the colors, for they reminded him how alone he was.
And yet he was comforted by them, by the pain they wrought, if only slightly. He swallowed thickly, unable to make his mouth move the way he wished it to. So he chose to be silent, instead.
He leans towards her subconsciously as she turns, one ear tilting to catch her words. There’s an offering in her voice, and he can’t help but breathe a small sigh of relief, his lungs releasing the tension from his posture. “No,” he whispered on the exhale. “At least, I don’t think I am.”
It’s painful to admit, but maybe it’s the truth, and it weighs down his voice. “In fact, I think I’m more lost than anything else.” Deliberation clouds his mind, but finally he turns towards her, meeting her stormy gaze head on. He sees the tempest in them, and it reminds him — even if it’s a stretch — of himself.
so darling, darling stand by me
ohh stand by me, stand by me
Snowflakes like falling crystals hang in their air amidst the silence that grows between them. Suddenly, she feels as if she had spoken too boldly. Somehow, someway, she might have stepped across a boundary from which there is no return. A shred of worry grows in her heart; stealing her breath, but for a moment, and lumping like a hard stone in the reaches of her throats. Words are not even a thought on her lips. No apology, no sentiment. Only the galaxy of stars that had once stretched and expanded between them — now collapsed and hanging on the balance of their fragile universe that is this night at the festival.
In fact, I think I'm more lost than anything else.
Aislinn cradles the careful offering of his words like a baby bird in cupped palms. In some way, she can only imagine the ice of his walls crack. Just enough, do they seem to splinter and allow the outstretched hand of her stars and smoke break through to him. Their eyes meet then, as the stranger looks up at the storms swirling there in her orbs. For a breath, her heart stutters — remarkably self-conscious of the hurricane that is wrought in her gaze. But still he looks upon her, if only for a second, before his stare finds a horizon that blurs far from them both. A soft, soundless sigh looses from her lips, as if the air in her lungs had been constricted and bound in the cage of her ribs. What is she to do, except stand here and hope?
The phantom hands that held his offering of words slowly began to fall. Maybe, maybe he did not want her here. Was she silly enough to think that her presence was wanted? Why would she stand here, allowing her kindness to be stepped on, marred on? But then again.. she had willingly led herself here. Still, the stormsinger stands at his side. No, she would stay, until told otherwise. For she knows too well the pain of both desiring to be alone, and not wanting to be lonely all the same.
"I know too well of being lost," she admits; an almost-whisper that carries on the snowflakes that flutter between them. A careful star of snow that blots the air in an icy chill that has yet to cool the heat that floods under her skin. The stormsinger only searches his face, all too curious, all to full of wonder and childlike innocence. She is not a warrior born of lightning and storms on this night, but instead a gypsy woman who is as free as the wind that swirls around their ankles. She is as unbound as the sun that travels across their sky, and a dreamer who wishes on Calligo's stars above. On this night, she is not a guardian, or a protector, or a soldier of war that craves torn knuckles and blood on her lips.
She is only a girl, who offers a small smile to the man of white and silver and blue. The festival is a warm pyre of music and song around them, but here, at his side.. their is a cloud of hushed quiet. It is only him and her, and the unsaid words that are spoken without volumes in gestures and the flicker of an ear. Her lips curl on one side; her eyelids suddenly heavy. Ebony lashes fall upon the dark of her cheeks, her gaze downcast, staring upon the growing of shadows that gather as the sun continues to fall. How beautiful.
Her words are a murmur, but are light on her lips. "My name is Ash."
He isn't used to feeling this way--just a few months prior he had had everything he needed, even wanted. A content life, perhaps boring from the outside but complete all the same had been his, and his to share. His blackberry lips quirked upwards at the corners, twisting into a knowing smirk: only the uninformed could have called a life with Eros boring. He knew better; his boyfriend was anything but tame.
But the smile disappears quickly. It's too painful; those few seconds of blissful joy came at the cost of a knife twisting farther into his heart, slipped neatly between the spaces separating his ribs. To remove it would be fatal, lest he bleed out in the streets; to leave it in was nothing less than agonizing. Every beat of hi heart seemed a painful reminder of what he was missing, his other half, his better half.
And no, he was not just being dramatic. Or so he claimed.
It was why he could welcome the distraction of the star-glazed woman standing at his side, with her frozen hair and stormy gaze, whose company (he hoped) might be enough to clear his thoughts at least for the night, like a strong wind clearing the fog from the mountains. A sorry replacement for the company he longed for he knew, but he could drive the resentment out for now.
Out of sight, out of mind; or so he told himself when it came time to sleep at night.
"I know too well of being lost..." Her words are quiet, so that he has to lean in to hear them.
So he was right; there were storms in her eyes all right, the tempest of a person who’d seen heartbreak and trial of her own but lived on in spite of it. Perhaps they weren’t so different as their appearances suggested; Aion had seen stranger things occur. But she doesn’t seem nearly so guarded as he: he longs to ask, to question her sanity and her temper alike, to beg for an answer to the unanswerable. What have you gone through, how do you live through it with a smile, with that innocence? Can you teach me? Pain rules his life, it has for a while now: long before he came to Novus, before even he met Eros. He has always carried this chip on his shoulder, and it was one he was loathe to remove in the fear that it would take with it his excuses, his reasons for refusing to socialize and make friends.
But maybe, she could become a friend: his very first since winding up lost in Novus. His first friend in a long while.
"I'm Aion." His voice was equally quiet, an unspoken agreement between them. "It's nice to meet you." And for all the frost and daggers he had hid in is voice only moments before, his words were now simcere. He turned his head to her and offered a small, hardly perceptible smile.
"You aren't lost, too, are you? All the dancing and festivities are happening in the other direction." He tilted his eyes upwards to the sky, watching a stray lantern drift lazily, closer and closer to where they were standing.
so darling, darling stand by me
ohh stand by me, stand by me
I’m Aion.
Aion. The edges of her lips twirl, dark lashes falling upon her cheeks as she tucks the name into her memory. It is a rose petal, precious and meaningful, that she collects with every name of those she has come to meet. For her chances and travels and misadventures have created the garden of memories that are so unlike the demons locked away in cages of moonstone and adamant. This memory, this name — his name — is a bright and beautiful contrast to that chaos. And oh, does she tuck the precious thing close. Close to her heart. Something that will never be forgotten.
You aren't lost, too, are you? All the dancing and festivities are happening in the other direction.
She would be lying if she said that the snowflakes that floated around them did not pull at her, beckoning her to the heart of their reverie. She would be lying if she said that the stars of those snowflakes did not tug at her hair; flirting with her, dancing with her. Whispering sweet nothings into her ears. Instead, she quiets the hush of those murmurs. The coins wrapped around her throat tinkle, matching the drums and pipes that pulse across her skin. The stormsinger cannot help but desire to go, yet, she cannot help but hesitate for another moment. Pausing. The curl of her copper-kissed lips rising as if pulled with a silver thread.
"I‘m always lost, and never found," she breathes, collapsing into the long shadows that curl along the stone walls, the sun nearly completely set. Always the child, wondrous and carefree. A nomad to the very marrow of her bones; her body stepping into the home of those shadows — those tendril fingers of Calligo’s dark embrace. But is her eyes that have become the stars on this night; no longer the soft snowflakes that drift in the breeze, nor the galaxy painted upon her skin. But her eyes, they are fiery flames that burn brightest blue. Warm and full of promises that she intends to keep.
"I’d like to meet you again.. Aion."
And then she is gone; the only part of her left is but the stardust that has begun to cling to the memory of where she had stood at his side.
@aion ♡ pooey exit.. but I am really really excited for them to meet again!! :D
"Aislinn speech."
She had been like a breath of fresh air—a whisper of wind breezing through to blow away the dust and cobwebs from the tired caverns of his soul. For the first time in a long time, Aion could breathe; he felt refreshed, nearly relaxed. His worries had vanished with the dust, paving the way for a deep seeded curiosity to take root: Aislinn intrigued him, with her wild eyes and calm voice, her blatant contradictions. ”I’m always lost, and never found.”
The storms and skies had once bowed to his will, at a time when he had held the power to control them, when magic had been as constant and reliable as the air he breathed. But here—here he stood following along in rhythm with her tempest. He felt like he knew her, this storm singer: and how could he not, when he had once communicated so intimately with the gale she represented? Perhaps this was why he felt so inexplicably drawn to her, as if she were an old friend wearing a stranger’s face.
It was as if she were the personification of a storm, and tonight proved to be showcasing the eye of it. She had swept him up along with her—there was no room for his fear and anxiety here, blown away as they were by the hurricane.
”I’d like to meet you again… Aion.” He met her eyes one last time, two shades of blue uniting in the darkness, bright and icy simultaneously. “Likewise, Aislinn.” He could use some more friends; gods knew he had none left, not after all this time.
And then she is gone; he is left only with the wind and the snowflakes, spiraling down to land gently on his nose. But the cold doesn’t burn him—it lives inside of him, embraces him. He breathes in slowly, and when he releases it he lets out a puff of frost with it. Something inside of him has changed; the snow dances along his skin, clinging to him like clothing.
The permafrost has bitten him—he’s replaced the storms with his own brand of ice. A smile takes over his face, and he too turns to disappear back into the lights of the party.
