lysander
There might have been sorrow, were it not for the weight of the dagger against his chest, the cool kiss of it against his warm summer skin. There might have been regret, were it not for the memory of the music and the wind, the way it twines its fingers in his hair and tugs him away, away, to the land of his youth.
Oh, there is not time to wonder at the what-ifs, or just what feeling stirs in his heart to look at the unicorn. There are adventures ahead, and they are already beating in his blood. They feel a little like ichor, a little like summer wine.
And so his name on her lips only draws his smile wider, creases the dark green of his eyes. His gaze moves from the wonder of her (those eyes that hold the ocean, that horn that spirals to pierce heaven, the scales that glimmer with an undersea wish) and to the magic she makes even now. Only briefly does it touch on her dragon, much the color of her scales, and Lysander raises a brow at the sight of the little creature, amusement coloring his expression like sunlight.
“Oh,” he says, his voice curling the same way his grin does, “I think that they are much the same.” When he reaches forward to touch his nose to the leaf (a blush of gold, warmer than he would have thought) the dagger swings forward, casting its shadow over the ground. He wonders again how she feels about the chain wound round her leg - if it is an anchor or if it is a key. “If I were to keep this,” he asks softly, and his forelock spills between his arching antlers as he looks up at her, “would it stay just as you made it?”
@Isra
