Diving through the air, dropping nearly on top of the pale colored stallion, brings back memories he would rather forget. It feels too much like hunting, when the horse below him resembles one of the rabbits the masters would set loose in the forest, to teach their falcons how to navigate through the trees.
But there are no trees here, at least nowhere in eyesight - the plain stretches on as far as the eye can see, snow and ice speckling the landscape like splotches of white across a paint mare’s back. Sirius has never seen snow before - he’s hardly seen ice from where he’d come. And while his first impression had been that it was bright, and hurt his eyes when he was flying about it and the sun reflected off of it -
- His second impression was that it was cold, and slippery to land on.
His wings flare out to either side of him, feeling heavy and cumbersome here on the ground where the wind did not fill them and make them weightless. One tips low to the ground, dragging through snow and flinging the cold powder into the air before he finally regains his balance, tucking the appendages into his sides. Thankfully the stranger doesn’t seem to mind the intrusion, or the slight dusting of ice crystals across his back. He smiles at him instead, and when he speaks there’s a casual, impish hint to his tone that makes him think of magic tricks. He shuffles his wings closed, holding them close against his back.
“Maximus,” he repeats, testing the name on his tongue. It reminded him of something, he thought - but he couldn’t place it. He wants to ask if the stars had named him, too, or where else he had gotten his name from. But he decides it’s a silly question to ask, and offers a smile instead. “I’m Sirius.”
Only then does the boy notice the color of his eyes (he’s only seen grey eyes before, and white eyes and black eyes - never red eyes.)
He tilts his head to one side, peering at the man with his pale, glassy eyes. His ears tilt back and forth, listening for the quiet whisper of the stars that has become so familiar to him in his few years. But all he hears is the wind, whistling through the dry grasses, and the soft sighs of their own breathing.
“What’s that around your neck?” he asks abruptly, reaching with his nose towards the tiny skull hanging about a rope.
moon dust in your lungs,
stars in your eyes,
you are a child of the cosmos,
a ruler of the skies
@Maximus ! this is so late please forgive me ;;
