lysander
Oh, he would be sorry to know of her fear, to know she wonders if he is yet another pretty monster.
The danger of Lysander has never been physical; no longer does he feel like a stranger in this skin of copper-gold, but Calliope was right when she thought his antlers useless, a waste of a weapon. It was not his way.
Nor is it his way to frighten such a girl as she. No, he had once sought to comfort the sorrowers and storytellers, the lovely and the weak. To help them feel alive, feel free.
He does not need to see the chain she still wears to know she does not think herself free.
Lysander rests easy in the waving grass as she continues her story. His gaze is languid as it slips over the children, as it touches again and again to the teller. He listens well to her tale, lets himself be carried away on the tide of it; still he does not miss each change in tone. Neither does he miss her tears, which echo in his heart if not his eyes. The once-god can’t remember ever crying; perhaps even now he is not mortal enough.
As her story draws to a close, a smile grows and grows on his dark lips, reflects in his green eyes. Even as his heart rests full and heavy in his chest at the conclusion of the tale (he has a Roman’s undeniable love of tragedy) he is joyful to have heard it, joyful to have been carried home on the current of her words, even for a moment. He does not mind that her eyes never touch his again.
When the children disperse Lysander climbs back to his feet and stretches, catlike, before making his way toward the girl who glimmers and shines like the moon’s reflection on the water.
“That was a wonderful story. How lucky the sea was, to have the love of such a girl.” He does not press in close to her; he lets his voice carry instead, easy and appreciative.
There is only curiosity in his gaze when he looks at her, only kindness, only an offer.
“I imagine she looks a little like you,” he says, and if he wonders if there were other truths contained in her tale, he says nothing of them.
@Isra sry if weird
