lysander
He supposes, as he stands hock-deep in mud and feels his already-curly hair curling further, that he should be more invested in the direction of the court. He has already given his blood for them, after all; how many could say the same? And yet it is only his care for Florentine and his ravenous curiosity that keep him in a swamp full of near-strangers (he has not had much time to meet them, caught as he was between a coma and convalescing).
The little wine-red, gold-flecked pegasus he knows – he has been told that she is perhaps as responsible for his life as Florentine, and for that he is deeply grateful. And there is Auru, lion-maned and still cautious, and Asterion, who Lysander has an inkling he knows from another world. He is in no hurry to remind the boy; he looked as though he had enough thoughts to war with for the moment.
But Lysander’s interest grows as Florentine begins speaking, and his keen green eyes follow the flowers that drop from her hair and slip away in the stream. He does not disguise his intrigue with talk of the Ilati, nor his amusement when matters turn to that night. Perhaps it had been foolish of him, to speak so casually knowingly to the kirin and his king, but Lysander had never had much use for remorse. It wasn’t the sort of thing gods felt, and though his heart is clearly mortal (a pity, else this mess could be avoided), his head is slower to catch up.
But he feels his eyebrows drawing higher as the little kirin speaks – higher still when Asterion answers with more heat than Lysander had thought he possessed. Still waters, indeed.
Were it any other conversation – had not the memory of copious amounts of blood, black eyes, splintered antlers and an embedded bit of metal not been so recent – he would have kept his tongue. But he has found himself entwined in this, however unintentionally (he wonders just how deeply his path is wound with Florentine’s), and when the young bay falls silent at last Lysander looks sidelong at the kirin.
“That’s an interesting take on events,” he says dryly, and his lip curls in something that is not quite a smile. “I, personally, do not think it was the queen’s heart or her actions that saw me beaten by Reichenbach and three of his court, just as I doubt it was loyalty or love of Terrastella that Isorath had in mind at any stage of his relationship with the Night King. Though it certainly seems to have worked out tremendously for him.” He shrugs a shoulder, then turns toward Florentine. Absently, he twitches the skin of his flank that bears a scar from two knives, one silver and one subtle; healing is an itchy process.
“I would learn of the Ilati. I’ve discovered I have…quite an interest in the healing arts.” He wonders, as he watches her, if she regrets not leaving this world. He knows she can at any moment, such is the power in her blood and the magic in the dagger she wears – and it seems to him both brave and foolish to stand here instead, and try her best to lead a people who only blamed her.
He thinks, idly, that he might love her a little more for it.
The little wine-red, gold-flecked pegasus he knows – he has been told that she is perhaps as responsible for his life as Florentine, and for that he is deeply grateful. And there is Auru, lion-maned and still cautious, and Asterion, who Lysander has an inkling he knows from another world. He is in no hurry to remind the boy; he looked as though he had enough thoughts to war with for the moment.
But Lysander’s interest grows as Florentine begins speaking, and his keen green eyes follow the flowers that drop from her hair and slip away in the stream. He does not disguise his intrigue with talk of the Ilati, nor his amusement when matters turn to that night. Perhaps it had been foolish of him, to speak so casually knowingly to the kirin and his king, but Lysander had never had much use for remorse. It wasn’t the sort of thing gods felt, and though his heart is clearly mortal (a pity, else this mess could be avoided), his head is slower to catch up.
But he feels his eyebrows drawing higher as the little kirin speaks – higher still when Asterion answers with more heat than Lysander had thought he possessed. Still waters, indeed.
Were it any other conversation – had not the memory of copious amounts of blood, black eyes, splintered antlers and an embedded bit of metal not been so recent – he would have kept his tongue. But he has found himself entwined in this, however unintentionally (he wonders just how deeply his path is wound with Florentine’s), and when the young bay falls silent at last Lysander looks sidelong at the kirin.
“That’s an interesting take on events,” he says dryly, and his lip curls in something that is not quite a smile. “I, personally, do not think it was the queen’s heart or her actions that saw me beaten by Reichenbach and three of his court, just as I doubt it was loyalty or love of Terrastella that Isorath had in mind at any stage of his relationship with the Night King. Though it certainly seems to have worked out tremendously for him.” He shrugs a shoulder, then turns toward Florentine. Absently, he twitches the skin of his flank that bears a scar from two knives, one silver and one subtle; healing is an itchy process.
“I would learn of the Ilati. I’ve discovered I have…quite an interest in the healing arts.” He wonders, as he watches her, if she regrets not leaving this world. He knows she can at any moment, such is the power in her blood and the magic in the dagger she wears – and it seems to him both brave and foolish to stand here instead, and try her best to lead a people who only blamed her.
He thinks, idly, that he might love her a little more for it.
