He might have pressed upon those words, his curiosity piqued, his humor black as rotten leaves - he might have asked more of this man-beast-god who has never suffered the consequences. Lysander wants to tell him that everyone does, eventually, if they let themselves live for long enough.
But something changes in him, at that question. For the first time in their meeting Lysander grows serious, the dark curve of his mouth turning down to almost grimness. There is no laugh in his voice when he speaks again, and though there are few (so few) in this world that the once-god has learned to cherish, it is they he thinks of when he answers.
“Not personally. But there are others…” His mind turns to Flora, wounded, and Isra, lost. He thinks of all the children that weave like stray cats among the market stalls, brightening the world with their laughter. “They say that Raum is ruthless, likely mad. I doubt he’s done with Denocte.” With that one name, said like the blunt end of a blade, Lysander thinks of the scar that marks his side in silver, of the piece of knife that had nestled, once, between his ribs, beside his lung. He thinks of how dying had felt a little like floating just beneath the surface of a midnight sea, and the way the light played on the water, the way everything was silent, almost peaceful. Lysander still wonders what would have happened, if he had given in, if he had reached his hand through that strange surface - would he return to himself and his godhood and his home among the laurel and the grapevines?
He does not think so.
If not for Florentine, Ruam would have killed him. And Lysander has never learned regret - it is not a thing for gods, at least not his kind - but when he thinks of how he had not hunted the Crows, those years ago, he thinks he might be enlightened.
you fester in the daytime hours
boy, you never sleep at night
@
