But you had to have him, and so you did // Some things you let go in order to live
There is a wistful longing in the air and in the way the sandy streets raise up longingly beneath Basileios' cloven hooves; the kiss of spring sun glinting down through the hazy, wind-bitten clouds, a touch of sun despite the severe weather. It aches of a return to normalcy and, like the weather, they find themselves lingering beneath archways with their eyes drifting over lovers and friends alike. Their shadow has been missing since their family's slaughter and is it not their father or mother's absence that leaves them wanting.
They haunt the liminal spaces of the Day Court, a ghost dressed in gold, but there are no spirits within sight, no longing gazes to be met and challenged. The shackles are gone— but so is their playmate.
The Colosseum rises before and betwixt them, a prodigious monument to both Solis' power and the hubris of the Old Regime. Their skin shudders in agony as they step into the sandy stands; how many times had they been forced to watch from the nobles' boxes as the stallion they loved scrabbled against foes to ensure his survival? Basil tipped their muzzle low, arching their neck as if to bear the weight of their lived experiences.
There were no shadows to be found here, only long-buried memories best left to the sands of Time itself. And yet— a glimmer against the far column, a flash of hooves. Basil tenses, takes a step forward, and hesitates, expression blossoming with undisguised yearning and a foalish hopefulness. They are torn between calling out and remaining silent, fearing their eyes are mistaken and wishing fervently they are not.
Finally, steps so flighty they seem to skim the ground, they slip after the elusive figure.
They haunt the liminal spaces of the Day Court, a ghost dressed in gold, but there are no spirits within sight, no longing gazes to be met and challenged. The shackles are gone— but so is their playmate.
The Colosseum rises before and betwixt them, a prodigious monument to both Solis' power and the hubris of the Old Regime. Their skin shudders in agony as they step into the sandy stands; how many times had they been forced to watch from the nobles' boxes as the stallion they loved scrabbled against foes to ensure his survival? Basil tipped their muzzle low, arching their neck as if to bear the weight of their lived experiences.
There were no shadows to be found here, only long-buried memories best left to the sands of Time itself. And yet— a glimmer against the far column, a flash of hooves. Basil tenses, takes a step forward, and hesitates, expression blossoming with undisguised yearning and a foalish hopefulness. They are torn between calling out and remaining silent, fearing their eyes are mistaken and wishing fervently they are not.
Finally, steps so flighty they seem to skim the ground, they slip after the elusive figure.
