I want to be with those who know secret things
or else alone
or else alone
Asterion has wondered, when his thoughts are idle, half-dreaming things, when his gaze is on the stars or the sea or the tree limbs that sway like arms welcoming him home, whether he would be different if he had been born a unicorn.
Of course it is impossible - he is the son of a simple stallion who was, in turn, the son of a simple stallion - but that is half the point of daydreaming, of fairy tales. Would he have been braver at the beginning, if he had such a noble weapon jutting from his brow (instead of the mark of a star, like a kiss from a distant constellation - a kiss from his mother)? Would he have felt he was more born to war? Likely it doesn’t matter, because he is here now.
The dragon cuts once more across the horizon, ripping spaces in the ash for the distant stars to shine through. The smoke eats them up again, but Fable is not done; he tears a new hole in the fabric of that dark destruction, and another, and another. How good it is, how lucky they all are, that Isra is no villain. How terrible the thought of her as anything else - even considering it makes him feel like a traitor.
“Yes,” he says softly, and still neither meets the other’s eyes. “I should like to see you turn the ash to butterflies.” Perhaps he could ask the ocean to swallow the island - perhaps it would even listen, as much as it could. “Sometimes,” he continues, and his voice is soft as a confession, here at the edge of the world, “I wish there were no courts. That our only loyalties were to each other.” Like now, he thinks - if only it wasn’t disaster that forced them to unity.
Fable’s shape is dark over the water, and fleeting as a swallow. Slowly, with a sound like sighing, it begins to rain.
@Isra
Of course it is impossible - he is the son of a simple stallion who was, in turn, the son of a simple stallion - but that is half the point of daydreaming, of fairy tales. Would he have been braver at the beginning, if he had such a noble weapon jutting from his brow (instead of the mark of a star, like a kiss from a distant constellation - a kiss from his mother)? Would he have felt he was more born to war? Likely it doesn’t matter, because he is here now.
The dragon cuts once more across the horizon, ripping spaces in the ash for the distant stars to shine through. The smoke eats them up again, but Fable is not done; he tears a new hole in the fabric of that dark destruction, and another, and another. How good it is, how lucky they all are, that Isra is no villain. How terrible the thought of her as anything else - even considering it makes him feel like a traitor.
“Yes,” he says softly, and still neither meets the other’s eyes. “I should like to see you turn the ash to butterflies.” Perhaps he could ask the ocean to swallow the island - perhaps it would even listen, as much as it could. “Sometimes,” he continues, and his voice is soft as a confession, here at the edge of the world, “I wish there were no courts. That our only loyalties were to each other.” Like now, he thinks - if only it wasn’t disaster that forced them to unity.
Fable’s shape is dark over the water, and fleeting as a swallow. Slowly, with a sound like sighing, it begins to rain.
@Isra
Asterion.
